The Penance List by S C Cunningham

by S C Cunningham www.sccunningham.com

He loved being him, he got away with murder She loved being her… until she met him

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Day three Chelsea, London, England Standing over the mattress, he took a leisurely sip of wine and stared down at her beautiful naked body, pinned out, star shaped, waiting his attention. The delicious vulnerability made his cock hard. He smiled; she was ready to be cut.

As she slept through the drugs, he had stretched her out on thick plastic sheeting and staked her limbs to the bedposts. He set up two spotlights; one at each end of the bed, their harsh light burnt directly onto her tanned skin, blanching it ethereal white. He gently stroked the length of her body with a wet cloth, bathing away the musky sweat of their sex. Her body glistened, she was beautiful, it was a shame, he would miss her.

He painstakingly applied makeup to her sleeping face; the finishing touch, a slash of whore-red lipstick dragged across her mouth. He stroked the blonde fringe from her forehead and fanned her soft tresses out onto the plastic sheet, gently combing through the tangles, trying not to pull on her scalp. The long blonde hair formed a golden halo around her head. She was his angel… fallen, but his.

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The preparation complete, he fist-whipped her face.

Knuckles smashed backwards and forwards until a snap of bone cracked the air; she gave a low moan through the drugged coma. Red welts crept across her skin, lipstick smudged her cheeks. It was time to wake up, time for penance; he had waited nearly twenty years.

Standing over her, he picked up the bottle of red wine and stretched his arm out high over her head, ready to pour. He waited patiently as she regained consciousness.

The drugs were wearing off.

She woke to the heat of the spotlights burning her skin; their harsh light piercing her eyelids. Why was it so hot?

She tried to move away from the source, but her heavy limbs barely moved. What was happening? Her mouth was parched, her throat locked tight, a searing pain ran through her jaw as she tried to swallow... what the fuck!

She rocked her head backwards and forwards, groaning with the waves of pain, trying to clear her mind. Where was she? Memories began to tumble back into place... fuck! Where was he? She knew he was somewhere near; she could smell his expensive cologne, could hear his agitated breathing; he was aroused.

She squinted through the light, her darting eyes anxiously trying to find him. On a bedside table, a few feet from her head, something glistened. She strained towards it, pulling the glint into focus. Her heart stopped. A neat row of surgical instruments lay on a silver tray, his tools of torture set out in an orderly fashion, soldiers ready for duty, their polished blades shimmering in the light.

“Jesus, David, what are you doing?” her rasping whisper barely audible, tearing her throat.

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Her mind raced, the realization of what he had in store pumped sobering adrenaline through her body.... fuck, how could she have been so stupid? With all that had been going on, she should have known it was a trap? She had seen his work; she knew what he did to his victims.

He didn’t love her, he hated her. It was a lie.

She could hear the dull throb of traffic; she must still be in his flat, which meant people were nearby. Wincing with pain, she tentatively opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and yelled hard, praying someone would hear her.

From nowhere, a heavy torrent of liquid crashed down onto her face, filling her open mouth, silencing her scream to a gurgling splutter. She gasped with shock, drawing a mouthful of the vinegary fluid to the back of her throat, blocking, engorging, she couldn’t swallow.

She tried to cough up, but the liquid kept on coming, more and more. It tasted like red wine... what the hell?

Acidic splashes burnt her eyes. The overflow from her mouth quickly filled her nostrils and ran down her face, collecting in a pool beneath her head. Red liquid chased along the creases in the plastic sheet, cooling the skin of her back. Panic clambered through her, her heart thumped high in her chest; her lungs tightened, she couldn’t fill them... no air, he’s drowning me, the sick bastard!

She could hear him laughing out loud, as more liquid slammed hard onto her face. She turned her head backwards and forwards to escape the flow; he laughed some more, enjoying her spirit, following her mouth with the bottle. She thrashed her limbs against the mattress to loosen the bindings but they were locked fast. He laughed 5

again. She was suffocating, drowning, and he was loving it, he wasn’t going to stop! Stinging tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, watering the wine to pink rivulets that ran down her cheeks. She stilled the screaming inside her head and started to pray... please God let me live.

As quickly as it started, the torrent stopped. She spluttered, snorted and gulped for precious air. Her breathing calmed as the panic subsided, then silence... what now? Opening her eyes, she strained against the lights; he was standing over her, smiling. His dressing gown had fallen open; the bastard had a hard-on.

Anger boiled inside her, he was playing with her. She spat at his crotch, took a deep breath and screamed again, stronger, louder, the effects of the alcohol numbing the pain in her jaw. Another torrent of liquid hit, heavier than the first, as he held the bottle higher over her face. She snapped her mouth tight shut and shook her head from side to side, trying to escape the downpour. She retched, bile rose in her throat, keeping her mouth tightly closed, she swallowed it back down. She retched again and again and swallowed.

The courage of his quarry amused him; she fought harder than the others. He finished decanting another bottle, admiring the trails of wine that ran through her hair and splattered her beautiful heaving breasts. He wondered if she would look as beautiful inside, once he had opened her up. He dropped the bottle on the bedside table and picked up his beloved camera. He like to document before and after shots of his victims.

Click, Click.

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The camera shutter hissed as he took a close-up of her angry face. His phone rang, he ignored it.

“Swallow, darling, swallow, it’s a delicious little Chateauneufdu-Pape; you mustn’t waste it,” he moved to the end of the bed and stood between her open legs, he squinted into the lens and focused on the red stream of wine that trickled its way down through pubic hair to swollen, glistening lips.

Click, Click.

He moved back up to her chest, bent low over her right breast and put his mouth against her skin, chasing up a wine trail with his tongue. Her nipple jumped, hardened.

“Bastard,” she spat, pulling her arms and legs, the binding ropes see-sawing cuts into her skin.

Click, Click.

The intoxicating wine gave more courage.

“There’s no way you’re going to cut me up, you bastard,” she turned her face away from him and screamed as hard as her lungs could stand.

Growing bored with this game, he brought his fist down hard on her stomach. She heaved with pain; angry tears stung her eyes... fuck you! She wouldn’t give up; summonsing strength, she tried again.

Click, Click.

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She looked good when angry, but the screaming would attract attention. He smashed her hard and fast for a second time; this time his punch angled up and under the rib cage. It had the desired effect; she passed out, silence.

He opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out two screwdrivers, a staple gun, and masking tape. The screwdrivers were for the eye sockets, the staples to pin back skin, and the sticky tape to silence her mouth.

He took another sip of the exceptionally agreeable wine; although it was a tad cool, not quite room temperature.

He inspected his tray of instruments. Teacher would be pleased, how neat he was... top marks dear boy! He picked up a remote control and punched the play button.

A soothing Mozart violin concerto filled the air.

He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, enjoying the clammy feeling of distance they gave between him and his patient, between him and his conscience. Humming to the music, he turned his attention to the tray of tools, his fingers danced along the row of blades, finally landing on the smallest one; he held it up to the light, inspecting the cutting edge.

“This will do for starters. I’ll open you up just a little at a time. You will be conscious, able to enjoy the fun, just like I was when he took me. But of course you knew that, didn’t you, my angel, you conspired with him.”

A painful image of himself as a seven year old boy flashed across his eyes. He was bent over the Headmaster’s desk, knuckles white with fear as he held on for dear life. Legs dangling, shorts hanging around his ankles. His tear-swollen face scrunched up, biting his lip, trying not to cry out and make it worse. He bore through

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the pain as his anus was being torn into by the old man’s swollen cock, praying desperately for the grunting animal noises to come quickly, so that he would stop.

“Now wake up dear, dissection time.”

He cheerfully shrugged away the memory, and knelt at the side of the bed, slapping her face with renewed hate.

She started to come around. He leaned in over her for the first incision... this would wake her up.

9

Chapter One

Eight weeks earlier Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London “Granted, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, if you swallow, you are in the minority, it needs sugar or brandy or something,” Tara blew her blonde fringe out of her eyes, concentrating on her defence.

“Depends on the guy’s diet of course, pineapple is meant to be good, no fast food, no ciggies, no drugs, and it could almost be palatable,” the two girls looked at her blankly, “it’s full of protein, low on calories,” she enthused, but no, they were still not convinced.

Click, Click. hidden in a cafe across the street, he focused the camera, fitting all three in shot.

As per normal for most Fridays, the girlfriends giggled through lunch discussing men, or the lack thereof. Tara, Helen, and Josie were single, beautiful, intelligent, best of friends. They had reached the age of thirty having avoided the three things that sap a girl’s energy; marriage, divorce, and kids. It wasn’t that they didn’t want long term relationships; they were sexually active

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and adored men, they had just never quite understood the workings of the male mind.

If you give them what they want, the chase is over and they move on, if you don’t give them what they want, you are a frigid bitch. If you give them the babies their egos crave for, they are out the door, financing as little as possible, and seeing their offspring at weekends, between the golf, football and their latest sexual conquest. They want commitment yet freedom, for you to be faithful, yet them to be free, for you to be a full-time mother, yet them a part-time father. You can’t win.

Sourcing a man that knows what he wants, is a balanced, reliable, trustworthy soul mate, a good father and sexy as hell, was a tough call. Maybe the girls asked for too many boxes to be ticked, their quality control too high.

Maybe they shouldn’t even consider long term stuff until the guy was at least over thirty five, forty, settled in who he was and what he wanted. The trouble was a girl’s time clock ticked away. The choices were test tubes or older men. It was a tricky one, can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Hell, did they need to have babies anyway? Weren’t they overrated and oversupplied?

Tara had a particularly high setting on her quality control button, although highly sexed, she was extremely choosy, the consequences of which would lead to long periods of man-drought. She was currently going through a serious dry patch, climbing the walls as she had not been with a man for a year. She craved the relaxed laissez-faire attitude of Helen.

Helen had a lower par setting, ‘love the one your with’, she made do with whatever was available on the day, or 11

rather, whoever actually showed an interest in her, which, because she was beautiful, was quite a lot of men.

Josie tended to laugh along with the girls stories of manwoe, giving advice and sympathy where needed. She seldom dated, was wary of men and was happy to be alone; she was more interested in her career, often working late.

However cynical they appeared, they each had the romantic seed of hope, that one day Mr. Right would come bursting in on his white charger, or gas-guzzling SUV, meanwhile they waited, grazing on titbits.

Tara and Helen had met as juniors at a convent boarding school for young ladies, upsetting a multitude of nuns in their wake. Josie had been adopted by them years later at college. Her cheeky up-front London cockney savvy and their self-effacing Sloaney wit made an entertaining mix.

They had stuck together through thick and thin, enduring life’s roller coaster; they were a good team.

Their bond was about to be tested. Evil was to enter centre stage of their cosy, comfortable lives. It had been sitting on the periphery for years, plotting, planning, patiently waiting. It was watching them now; they only had to look up through the restaurant window to see it, hiding behind the large black lens that focused directly on them.

Click, Click. the shot pulled in tight on slender fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass.

“I love it, but I totally understand those that don’t, especially when you think about where it’s actually

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coming from… so to speak,” giggled Tara, “excuse the pun!”

“Yes, urrgh!” Helen groaned, jumping on the gruesome fact with gusto. Although she loved sex, she was not an advocate of placing anything remotely live or squidgy in her mouth. Her retch-reflex was too sensitive, oysters, snails and egg white had the same effect.

“Think about it T, they urinate out of the same hole, it’s absolutely disgusting!” she raised her hand to the front of her face, blocking out the image, “yuk! Second thoughts don’t think about it, don’t even go there,” too late, she had gone there, her face scrunched up with disgust.

“But, so do we,” corrected Tara, levelling up the case for the opposition.

Helen grimaced; covering her face with both hands to push away two sets of visuals. Looking down at her wine glass, the yellowy chardonnay didn’t look quite so appealing.

“Urrgh… STOP… I’m eatin, do ya mind?” moaned Josie, her cockney accent shouting over the two girls. She punched them both smartly on the shoulder, secretly loving it when they got into full debate on the endless subject of men and their ever-fascinating appendages.

The girl’s discussion mainly flowed in this vein; their witty banter moved at a gallop, sprinting through sentences that didn’t need completing, interspersed with giggles, tears and hugs. They ‘got’ each other with intuitive precision. When a man joined the table, the conversation would politely shift a gear to less risqué 13

subjects. Men were sensitive souls; they may not be able to cope with the intense level of, utterly pointless, discussion given to their private parts.

Tara did sometimes wonder how they could talk such utter rubbish for hours on end; she put it down to a necessary form of free DIY therapy from those who actually loved, cared and understood you. Knew how to make you laugh and what made you tick. She believed in avoiding shrinks whenever possible, buy a friend lunch; it was cheaper and didn’t keep the drug trade in business.

Too many unnecessary pills out there.

“I hate BJ’s; I hate the taste, the feel, the pressure. I am SO useless at them, they make me gag, which is SO not such a good look,” complained Helen, pulling a very unattractive gagging face.

The girls giggled; Josie put her fork down, giving up trying to eat.

“No, seriously,” continued Helen, “I try really hard, but I can’t swallow to save my life, and my hand jobs are a nightmare. I get into a nice rhythm; everything’s going fine, then it starts; the insecurity creeps in. Am I doing it right? Am I holding too tight, too hard? Am I yanking too fast? He’s not saying anything, not helping, except the odd sharp intake of breath or animal-like groan. Was that a ‘pained’ intake of breath or a ‘pleasurable’ intake of breath, a ‘yeah, good’ groan or an ‘ouch! fuck that hurt’ groan; how the hell do you know? You have to be a mind reader. My hand gets tired; my knees ache; my jaw starts to lock; my teeth get in the way; I remember that he pees out of it and ...”

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She takes a slug of wine, soldiering on with her regular moan about her disastrous sex life. “... whoosh!…I lose it; hand-to-mouth coordination gets all out of sync; and I go into a blind panic, knowing that he knows, that I know, that I’ve lost it. It’s like reverse parking; start analyzing it and I mess up, every time…”

The girls look at her quizzically, trying to keep up with her line of thinking…reverse parking?

“And, to make it worse, he’s looking impatiently down at me, like, ‘come on, babe, get a move on,’ probably waiting for the footy to start, spotting my roots need doing, and trying not to laugh at the farting noises my mouth is making…urrgh!! It’s all SO unattractive.”

She sighs, serious faced, topping up wine glasses, the girls trying not to laugh.

“How do you know if you’re doing it right?” she pleaded.

“Hey relax gal, you don’t ‘ave to do it, it’s not mandatory. Some guys don’t like blow jobs, having a set of gnashers around their privates fills them with terror, and some guys don’t like to go down on us for the same reasons; we pee out of it, and the little ‘panic button’ is hell to figure out,” Josie tried to calm her, but she wasn’t listening.

“And why the hell is it called a ‘blow job’? Granted, it’s a bloody job, but there is no bloody blowing involved, unless I’m doing it wrong,” she stopped in her tracks and looked quizzically up at the girls, “do you blow in the hole?” they both shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

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“I don’t want to force a bloody air bubble down his tubes, he’ll go blue... try explaining that to an ambulance crew.

No one teaches you these things, its real trial and error stuff.”

“Well maybe that’s what the older man is for, hon… to teach a girl the sexual basics,” piped up Tara.

“That’s even worse, they take Viagra and never bloody stop... they have a hard on for days, you’re bits are as sore as hell, and they never bloody come, where’s the fun in that? To top it all they end up having a heart attack,” Helen gulped more wine, shaking her head.

Josie giggled. “We’re a bit old for older men don’t ya think? Ours would come with a wheelchair and bus pass.

It would be more useful to learn a few resuscitation techniques... a good bit of slap’n tickle and a cheeky bit of CPR, very sexy.”

Click, Click. the frame catches their three heads rock back with laughter, a cauldron of witches.

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Chapter Two

Twenty-two years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England His beauty was a curse. Even though he knew it was coming, his throat retched each time he heard his name summoned in assembly.

“And lastly, would David Howard report to the Headmaster’s study, directly after choir practice!” bellowed the Assistant Head to the army of three hundred bored, shuffling schoolboys that stood before him.

He stood on an old wooden pulpit at the side of the stage.

The heat of the morning sun poured in through the vast windows, mixing musty smells of stale milk, wood polish, and body odour. Ghostlike particles of dust caught in the sunlight and percolated around his hunched shoulders, captivating the attention of the younger boys in the front row. He mumbled through the Morning Prayer and attempted to lead the choir in the final hymn, 17

‘The Lord’s my shepherd’, as usual, he was painfully out of tune.

Thankfully, the morning bell rang announcing the start of class. He dismissed the assembly hall. Two sixth formers heaved open the large wooden exit doors and the boys obediently marched out row by row, relieved that the tedious standing in silence was over. Noisy chatter filled the room.

As the teachers began to leave the stage, the Headmaster remained seated, his beady eyes followed David’s small frame. A satisfied grin pulled across his face as he contemplated the afternoon’s pleasure. He particularly enjoyed the boy in his choirboy robes.

David prayed each morning that the Head would tire of him, move on to someone else. That he would become a normal, innocent, carefree boy again. He spent hours in the school chapel tirelessly chanting the holy rosary, kneading the worn string of beads in his small hands. He didn’t understand the meaning of the words he was saying, but knew that they were important, what God wanted to hear, so he prayed and prayed over and over, begging for help.

He was a good boy; he didn’t steal, swear, lie or hurt anyone. He cleared his plate at mealtimes and completed his homework. He regularly attended early morning mass, sung his heart out in the choir, and lit countless candles, but to no avail. He began to doubt there being a God. If there was one, he had been abandoned. Why? He obeyed all the rules, kept quiet, seen and not heard. Why was he not good enough to be loved by God? Surely God loved everyone?

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The Head summoned him regularly for ‘private acts’, he frightened him into submission by telling him that he had the Devil in him, that he was a lost soul going to hell.

The Head would graciously save him by exorcising the Devil and preparing his path for heaven. The exorcism occurred when they met in the Headmaster’s study, it was their ‘private act’. Their meetings were to be kept a secret; if anyone were to find out he would suffer the wrath of the Archangel. He would be tied to a wooden cross, slashed with a thousand knives to within an inch of his life and left to burn in the cauldron of hell. David often wondered in whose hands was the worse fate… the Archangel or the Headmaster.

He had thought about going to confession, telling Father Michael, the school priest, but the fear of the Archangel got the better of him. Even if he did find the courage to tell, he doubted the priest would help; he and the Head were best friends; they always sat together in the dining room at meal times, laughing and joking. He had a suspicion that Father Michael knew of the ‘private acts’.

Sometimes he would be aware of another presence in the room, someone watching from the cupboard. He would hear a moan come from behind the door, the same type of animal groan the Head would give as he jerkily completed the exorcism ritual. He was alone, frightened, dirty and ashamed.

Recently he had been asking his Religious Education professor about the teachings of the Bible, about the fear people had of the Devil. It seemed to him that the Devil was as strong as, if not stronger than, God. If God did not love him, maybe the Devil would, he was certainly strong enough to protect him from the Archangel and the 19

Headmaster. It would be pitting a demon against a demon; the nightmare would finally stop.

He wondered if he could change sides for a little while, just until the pain ceased. One day he would be as tall as the Head and could protect himself, then he could return to God’s side. Like supporting Man United whilst he lived in Manchester, but really he supported Chelsea, it was just to survive.

Plan B would be suicide, but he wasn’t brave enough for that.

As they marched out of the hall, a few of the elder boys glanced back at him. He lowered his head, he was sure they knew of his shame, of why he got extra attention from the Headmaster. He wanted to scream out that it wasn’t his fault, that he hated it, that it hurt when the Head tore into him, that he would do anything to make it stop. Did they know because the same had happened to them when they were small? Surely someone would speak up? Was everyone frightened of this man? Why did he have so much power?

And why had he been chosen? He had been told that he had a cherubim face, whatever that meant; should he put a blade to it, cut it up? Should he cut his body, his willy?

Would that stop the Head calling him ‘his special boy’?

His shame kept his head low, unable to look students and teachers in the face. He had learned to dress and undress alone, cried off from swimming and PE, any activity that exposed his bruised, beaten, vile, ugly body to their pitying eyes. He concentrated on surviving from one day to the next. Blocking out the pain. He had changed from

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an innocent, cheerful, loving little boy into a lonely, degraded, dirty being that was going to hell.

His sister was a bitch, his father distant, the only person who truly loved him was his beautiful mother; he feared that if she ever found out what he was allowing to happen, that he would lose her also. He tried to keep up an academy award performance in his letters home.

Inventing news of winning sports cups, gold stars, prefect badges, that he was a popular and studious pupil, but he no longer had the stomach for writing.

He was as much to blame for keeping the guilty secret.

The shame of people knowing was as bad as the act itself.

He began to form a scarab shell, keeping up the pretence, hardening his emotions.

During the assembly’s closing hymn, he came to a decision, one that would change his life. He scoffed as he sang the empty words ‘The Lord’s my shepherd’... oh no he isn’t, he’s got the sack, the Devil is replacing him; things are gonna get better.

With renewed strength, he stood tall and puffed out his small chest. Chanting his new plan under his breath, he marched out of the great hall, staring straight ahead, ignoring the serpent eyes that bore into him from the stage. The Devil would help him now, he would be loved, he was no longer afraid. He pushed through the heavy oak doors, defiant, caring less for the cusses from fellow pupils as he knocked them out of his path.

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Chapter Three

Twenty-two years later Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London Tara, T to her friends, a kind-hearted, attractive, leggy blonde (well, almost blonde; the dark roots had to be sorted out every now and then), was the protective mother-hen of the trio, the organizer. She held down a good job in advertising (just about, her time keeping was shit and her upfront honesty got her in trouble), she owned a small one bed roomed flat in Chelsea, paid her bills on time and was a dutiful daughter to her eccentric, overbearing, social climbing snob of a mother, whom she prayed she would not become.

Tara loved sex. Hey, who didn’t? It was free, healthy, body toning, and sent feel-good pheromones whizzing through your system. As long as no one got hurt and you were with the right person, what better way of spending the weekend than loved up, giggling under a duvet with a delicious creature? Being an old romantic, sex and love went hand in hand. To make love to someone, she had to be ‘in love’, at least a little. As falling in love didn’t happen every day she hardly ever actually had sex, she

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endured insufferably long dry patches. But when it was good, it was very good, and worth the wait.

Sadly, when she did fall, she had a penchant for falling for the wrong guys. Viking types: rape and pillage, well, no rape, but certainly plenty of pillage. Pillage of her heart, generosity, trust, and with her messier affairs, her bank account.

In the aftermath of one of her break-ups, her trusty girls were on hand to pick up tear-stained pieces. Their hardest job was overseeing her cell phone usage. Vetting the texts, voice messages and emails she insisted on sending to the offending male, especially after copious amounts of wine and character assassination sessions late into the night.

The girls would have to forcibly uncurl her angry digits to confiscate her phone. Not an easy task as she had the strength of an ox when under the logic-drowning influence of alcohol, but needed to avoid acute embarrassment the following ‘sober’ day. ‘gonna cut ur herpes-ridden balls off, put em in a coffee grinder, post em 2 ur tart wiv a note - dear slapper, wake up n smell the coffee.’

Not the sort of helpful message to send to an ex when trying to cultivate the cool, sophisticated, hand raised, ‘am I bothered about being dumped?’ look.

Post relationships, Tara was banned from sending the ex any non-authorized-by-the-girls messages for at least three weeks (three weeks tended to be the average habit breaking time frame). She spent many a hangover 23

(between trips to the bathroom) wolfing down headache tablets, gallons of water, and egg and bacon toasted sandwiches, feverishly thanking the girls for saving her from herself. How did love, lust, sex make us behave so desperately pathetic?

“They are, after all, only ‘men’ for God’s sake! There are plenty more rocks on the mountain,” said Helen, the girls knew she meant pebbles on the beach, but with the amount of men she had got through, mountain was more appropriate.

Helen was the rich bitch of the three. Her sexy wild eyes, unruly auburn hair, and voluptuous mouth gave her the look of a passionate gypsy. Orphaned as teenagers, she and her brother had inherited an unhealthy amount of family money. She had dabbled at working in her student days, but being a ‘dogs-body-runner’ in a company that she could probably buy lost its shine after a while. She did not have to work, but most definitely should have; it was dangerous leaving her bright, inquisitive brain idle, consequently she was bored, bored, bored.

Her self-esteem was surprisingly low for a girl of her beauty, it may have stemmed from being the daughter of a beautiful mother. Living in her shadow, always overlooked. She had no idea how attractive and entertaining she was, however many compliments she received. Consequently, she fucked every man she met in the search of love and affirmation. She craved to be as confident and together as Tara and Josie, and was jealous of the ease with which they swanned through life. She loved them both dearly, but felt she was always running along behind, trying to keep up.

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Lack of confidence, jealousy, sexual predation, and boredom were a dangerous mix. Tara and Josie had their work cut out cajoling and supporting their needy, adorable friend.

Josie had a different beauty. She was perfectly coiffured with striking, glossy red bobbed hair, and a knock-out figure. She was the stylish one of the three, always immaculately turned out. When she opened her mouth, her surprising cheeky cockney London accent made her all the more attractive. She was cockney and proud of it.

She mercilessly took the piss out of the other two’s ‘posh’ accents. She had worked hard to get where she was. She adored her friends and their tireless debates on minutiae; she escaped her own demons listening to their trivia. She didn’t feel the need to discuss her sexploits; she just patiently listened to theirs, envious of their innocence.

The girls were in Cellini’s, their favourite restaurant, discussing the complicated science of men. They loved escaping to the cosy waiter-friendly haunt, sipping wine and gossiping the trivia stuff. They picked at delicious food and were spied on by flirty waiters and pervy, pasty businessmen with wives at home who had no idea on how non-understanding they were.

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Chapter Four

Coffee Shop, Chelsea, London Across the busy London street, behind the postercluttered cafe window, he silently watched the girls at lunch. A large red double-decker bus pulled smartly into his view.

“Fuck,” he spat under his breath.

He was seated on a tall barstool high enough to see over the traffic and into the restaurant, except when buses laden with bored, miserable, commuter pale faces trundled by.

“Only London has this many bloody buses,” he cursed, waiting anxiously for it to pass, but the remorseless traffic had come to a standstill.

His beautiful, dark, chiselled face leaned momentarily against the cold glass. He was alone in the cafe except for its staff, who were too busy chatting amongst themselves to take much notice of a tourist playing with his new camera. From time to time, he pretended to studiously

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scrutinize the instruction manual laid out beside his double espresso, absorbing the multitude of functions that his new toy boasted, particularly ‘how to focus’, giving reason for his lens to be trained on the same spot for the past half hour.

Whilst waiting for the traffic to move, he rested the heavy camera in his lap and allowed his tired eyes to close for a moment. The cold glass soothed his forehead, numbing his caffeine-induced headache. His mind wandered back to when he was a teenager, standing in the woods, screams echoing through the trees, the wind chasing around his naked body.

He slipped his hand into the inside top pocket of his coat, searching out for the reassuring touch of cold steel... aahh, there it is, my partner in crime. He stroked the knife. His generous, sensual lips stretched into a contented smile; he felt a leap of excitement between his legs. He loved being him; he got away with murder.

An impatient car horn brought him back to life. Rubbing his eyes, he returned to work. The traffic was crawling; the bus had moved on. He picked up the camera, focused in on the soft lips of her mouth and took the picture.

Click, Click. laugh, little girls, enjoy while you can, not long now, soon it’s my playtime.

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Chapter Five

Cellini’s Restaurant, Chelsea, London “Spit, don’t swallow, I say, can’t stand the stuff either, no matter ‘ow much sugar you put wiv it,” announced Josie, cheekily spicing up the debate. “It’s the texture that gets me, egg white gloopyish.”

She squeezed her red glossed lips tight into a rigid line and shook her head, not about to let a drop of anything in, gloopy or not.

“Spitting is SO not a good look though, Jose. Just pretend you love it, spread it all over your chin with the tip of his dick,” Tara tilted her head back, pouted her lips, and waved a clenched hand seesaw fashion across her euphoric face, demonstrating her enjoying-it look.

Click, Click. he recognized her action, licking his lips; what a bad girl.

Josie giggled; she of all people did not need a lesson in blow jobs, but Tara had a sweet way of talking naughty whilst making it sound as if she were discussing pruning

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petunias. Tara took her sex tips seriously; she wanted everyone to have the fun she had.

“That way, he’s in heaven with the view and the thought that you love every damn inch of him, while not having had to swallow a drop. Perfect; everyone goes home happy,” Tara beamed, her blue eyes sparkling with the simplicity of it all.

Enzo, the handsome young Italian waiter, in his smart white apron, had been forgotten as he deftly dispensed the crisp Chardonnay into their glasses. He listened openmouthed, barely breathing, as he followed Tara’s performance.

Josie couldn’t resist mimicking Tara. Exaggerating her demonstration, she ridiculously wielded her cockclenched hand all over the place; across her face, in her eye, over her shoulder, in her ear, over her head, under her chair, in her handbag, up her nose, across her chest, over the table, under her armpits.

“Like this, dahling?” she asked in her poshest voice, arms flailing, mocking wide-eyed innocence, teasing her wonderful friend.

Helen burst into giggles. Tara gave them both a withering look and soldiered on.

“You may jest, girlies, but I think some form of BJ is important for a girl to master, a necessary tool of the trade, so to speak,” giggling at the pun, “blatant spitting is trashy, SO not ...”

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“… A GOOD LOOK!” Helen and Josie joined in loudly, teasing her some more. According to Tara, whatever you were doing, you had to do it looking good, with a bit of style. It would be on her tomb stone, ‘this is SO not a good look’.

“How do you get them to kiss and cuddle afterwards?” asked Helen, as she twisted the stem of her glass a little too roughly, “most roll over, fart, fall asleep, or light up a fag and turn on the footy!…or, maybe, they just don’t like the taste of their own stuff and don’t wanna kiss you afterwards… bloody cheek, and they expect us to swallow it; where is the justice?”

“Jeez, girls, do you mind, I’m trying to eat ’ere,” Josie cut in, “bloody hell, can we stop talking men’s juices just until we get past the main course, for once, pulease…”

Enzo, still in a daze with the blow job demonstration, subconsciously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand, dispensing wine into Josie’s glass, had been forgotten. Wine decanted out of her brimming glass onto the tablecloth. “’ere! wotch it, sunshine, I don’t wanna swim in the stuff!” barked Josie.

Tara, realizing he was listening, deftly changed the subject. Butter wouldn’t melt.

“I love this time of year when the flowers come out; they look so pretty, they have such wonderful window boxes here; I wonder which florist they use,” she mused,

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pointing to the magnificent display of flower boxes outside the restaurant window.

The girls nodded, momentarily confused at the sudden change of tack in convo.

Click, Click. they’re looking out the window, had they spotted him? fuck, fuck, fuck!!

Red-faced, Enzo muttered an apology, mopped the mess with a napkin, dropped the bottle back into the ice bucket, and made a fast exit to the kitchen. English girls were frightening, the pastry chef agreed with him.

“How’s Ed the Head?” asked Helen, seizing the opportunity to change the subject.

Click, Click. good, they hadn’t seen him; he pulled in tight on her mouth, licking his lips, soon he would taste the fear in her sweat.

Tara took a deep slug of her wine. The memory of Ed still tingled through her, after all this time; he was one of the sexiest men she had ever met; he had also broken her heart and was the reason for her dry patch. He was so unfaithful, so unreliable, but so deliciously charming.

Once you realize that you don’t marry guys like Ed, you just play with them until ‘the one’ comes along, you are fine, never fall in love with an Ed. Sadly Tara, being a romantic, had. It ended in tears, when she realized she was not the only one he whispered sweet nothings to and shared his beautiful cock with.

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“Ed was many tears ago,” she said distractedly, getting bored with the hurt of longing for him. Forcing cheer into her voice, she counted up the months since they had split.

“Shit, it’s been nearly a year… so long without sex… I keep dreaming about it, I wake up in sweat, it is so frustrating. I’m going through a serious dry patch girls, gonna heal over soon if I don’t meet someone; wish I wasn’t so damn choosy,” Tara’s eyes scanned the table, searching out the butter dish.

“He was so bloody good he has ruined me for anyone else, fuck him!” she yanked the innocent dish towards her, “where the hell have all the good ones gone?”

Brutally tearing off a chunk of crusty bread roll, she stabbed it into the perfectly formed butter coils, and scooped up an unhealthy amount of the hip-enhancing stuff. She then waved it baton-like in the air between the two girls, and popped it into her mouth with a feisty chomp.

“Yuk...!” cringed the girls in unison. What was it about being hurt by a guy that made a girl stuff her face with food?

“They are either gay, married, or into skinny young fings.

Young fings are safe, cause they are not wise enough to know ‘ow lousy they are in the sack,” informed Josie, as she won a quick tug of war with Tara, and snatched the butter dish out of her reach.

“All the beautiful, fun, fit ones are gay! It’s so bloody annoying,” sighed Helen, “they should teach us these things in school: blow jobs, reverse parking, understanding the wine menu, and spotting dodgy men.”

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“I can’t imagine Sister Stanislaus turning the next page of our text books: ‘Now girls, page 12, Chapter 4, Blow Jobs, who did their homework last night?” mimicked Tara in her best Dublin accent.

“Helen Howard, D minus, that’s outrageous! Have you learnt nothing? Your Blow Jobs are a disgrace, detention after school for you young lady!”

Click, Click. he caught a close-up of the stretch of her neck as she threw her head back with laughter, and wondered whether he should place an incision across her neck.

His work done for the day, he packed the camera into its case, left cash for the coffee, popped on his shades, and slipped out of the café. The staff turned to the sound of the door closing; cold air whipped around their legs.

Tara shuddered.

“Ooohh, someone just walked over my grave,” she giggled to the others, more light-heartedly than she felt, “talking of Sister Stan, how’s that brother of yours, Hel? Haven’t seen him since school, he still taking weird pictures of earthworm’s innards?”

“Oh, he’s fine, sends his love, I keep him up to date with what you’re up to, still has a crush on you, you know, T, he has such bad taste,” Helen teased, topping up their wine glasses.

“Let’s toast to T’s next shag, to the end of her dry patch.”

They raised their glasses, giggling at the faces of the 33

fellow diners who had turned to hear Helen’s (a little too loud) toast.

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Chapter Six

Chelsea, London David’s six foot six frame lorded it down the Brompton Court Road towards his flat. His glossy dark hair blew across his face, his long black trench coat, spread out behind him, flapping in the wind. With his hooded cunning eyes and regal hooked nose, he had the look of a bird of prey, towering over pedestrians as they scrambled out of his way. He was intimidating, compelling and frightening, beautiful yet ugly. Those unfortunate enough to catch his eye would flinch with fear and scurry away, head down, hoping to go unnoticed.

He walked past the Brompton Court Tube, a central underground train station where three main-line arteries to London’s city centre converged; it was as grimy and busy as ever. Vagrants, beggars, drug addicts, prostitutes, office workers, schoolchildren and tourists spewed in and out of its gaping mouth, onto the traffic relentless Brompton Court Road. As trains passed beneath, warm tunnel air bellowed up the escalators and out the entrance, lifting abandoned rubbish and chasing it around 35

the ankles of pedestrians. A fine layer of black soot covered the surface of surrounding buildings for a 100 metre radius.

A collection of norm and abnorm under one dirty ratinfested roof. He likened it to Hades. He felt comfortable there; if he had time he enjoyed just leaning against the pillared entrance and watching, absorbing the energy.

Sometimes, if the mood took him, he would sniff out a fellow depraved soul, to take home and fuck. Juices would be exchanged but names wouldn’t.

He often laughed at the pathetic presence of police. They had no control. The street lifers, tramps, drunks, beggars, drug pushers, prostitutes, pimps, ruled the tube entrance with fear. It was their domain. When you walked through, you walked fast, with purpose, no eye contact, no looking back, just keep on moving. Tourists would catch on too late; muggings were abundant.

Sadly, he had no time for watching or tarting now; he had fresh film to develop. His flat was a short walk from the tube. He liked to live in the middle of all the action. 24/7 traffic and footfall heaved past his front door. The Brompton Court Road never stopped.

From the outside, the big old house, split into five flats, looked haggard, diseased, in need of repair. No burglar would deem it worthy of breaking into for fear of catching something… this suited him.

‘Shithead’ had been graffitied in large black letters on the front wall. Other equally charming words and symbols had blossomed out around this fitting address. He skipped past the entrance pillars with the non-existent gate, vandalized and torn off long ago, down the dark

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steps, to the side of the house, past the line of overflowing dustbins, to his front door. The smell of damp, stench ridden rubbish filled his lungs; he loved that smell; breathing deeply, he sighed.

“Aahh… home sweet home.”

The keys slid into the three locks and he stepped inside his private world. The noise of the ceaseless traffic abated as he closed his heavy oak front door.

The contrast was breath-taking, something out of a glossy designer magazine. The light airy flat spread throughout the basement of the large old house. High white ceilings, white wooden floors, decadent French gold-framed mirrors. A spacious sitting area with an open plan kitchen and dining area. A large central fireplace and white grand piano. The only colour came from the tasteful paintings, sculptures, and vast urns brimming with exotic cut flowers. Double French windows framed with plentiful cream silk drapes opened onto a luscious jungle garden, its patio crammed with flourishing terracotta pots and scented candles.

Two marble bathrooms, an en-suite sunken hot tub for eight, and walk-in shower room. A pure white, cream and glass bedroom with a king-size bed. Cream carpet, chaise lounge, muslin drapes, cushions and bedspread. Wall-towall mirrored built-in wardrobes and white glass dressing table and drawers. A clinical white and cream, mirrored cocoon; a cleaning lady’s nightmare.

Daddy had died, leaving him millions to play with. He was single, no need to work, money in the bank; what more could you ask for? A passion to fill your time with?

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He had that also; his very own plaything, his private obsession. “ She” lived around the corner, so when the flat had come on the market, tastefully owned and decorated by a talented gay designer, he snapped it up, fixtures, fittings, the lot. Well over the asking price, an estate agent’s dream, but it was worth it. The only changes were to the second bedroom. This was his den.

He chucked the keys onto the hall table, briefly checked his perfect reflection in the mirror, and turned left down the corridor, past the shower room and bedroom, straight to the den at the end of the hallway. His secret place, not even his cleaner got to see. He punched in the code for the door lock.

Originally it was the second bedroom, positioned at the back of the basement under the road. It was very dark, with light from only one small dusty window. The window had a view, through rusty cobwebbed security bars, to the dustbins. Sometimes he would idly watch prostitutes ply their trade against his outside wall. They thought they were safe, hidden from view, little knowing he could spy them, he took pictures ... women are cheap, no one would notice if they went missing.

He had gutted the room, painted it deep burgundy red, and fitted low spot lighting. A darkroom area for processing his special films was built against one wall; three trolleys of glistening surgical instruments beneath shelves of DVD’s and electronic equipment lined another. The other two walls were covered in his favourite photographs, collated over the years.

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In the far corner, an enormous television screen hung from the ceiling, twisted at an angle like a huge bird of prey swooping over its domain. A large leather reclining chair sat in the opposite corner, facing the screen, his private cinema for one.

He was a collector of visuals, a voyeur. He liked to watch, he particularly liked to watch her. Sometimes he got to touch and taste her also, during their private time.

He could almost taste her now... he gently tugged at his cock through his trousers as he savoured the thought... later, later, he promised himself, he would jerk off over one of today’s photographs.

Now, he had Devil’s work to do. He couldn’t wait to see the fruits of the day’s spying, Friday lunches were always productive. He had all three of them together on film; she was looking particularly good.

He picked up remote controls and bleeped the television screen and music system into life. Music filled the room; his favourite Mozart track was on repeat. The screen flickered into life; a loop of black-and-white photographs and short video clips began to play out over and over.

Humming cheerfully to the music, he meticulously prepared trays of solutions for his film. Visions of Tara played out in the air above his head.

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Chapter Seven

Photographic Studio, Soho, London Tara burst into the studio, late as usual.

Lunch with the girls had gone on too long; she could have stayed all afternoon; it was great therapy. She hated breaking up the party. Why did she have to work; why couldn’t she have loads of money like Helen and just hang out all day? She must remember to meet God halfway and buy a lottery ticket.

“I am SO sorry,” she announced apologetically to the room, “dodgy traffic; Knightsbridge is all road works, just for a change,” no one was listening.

She chucked her jacket and bulging, ridiculously large designer bag onto the nearest sofa, while signalling to the bored receptionist for a much-needed sobering coffee.

She was slightly tipsy; such a lightweight, two glasses of vino and she was anybody’s.

She took a deep breath... right; time to get into work mode. She surveyed the room in a swoop. The

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atmosphere was dreadful... who died? She recognized the hairdresser, the lovely Anton; he, the makeup artist and photographer’s assistant were huddled in a corner by the coffee machine gossiping, filing their nails, and drinking coffee. She could hear cursing and mumbling coming from somewhere in the back of the studio... hmmm, no music, a big no-no.

The studio was a large, light, airy loft space that made good use of its vast Victorian bay and roof windows. It belonged to celebrated photographer, Seb Maloney.

London’s current hottest property, he was young, trendy, roguishly attractive and had a soft Irish accent to die for.

He also had a great eye for catching soulful, edgy fashion shots. The media loved him; he had something different, an Irish passion the critics called it, he modestly put his talent down to simple hard work and painstaking, mindnumbing attention to detail.

Tara and he had known each other from boarding school days; he was ‘one of the girls’, one of the few men that could keep up with their banter. He and Tara loved each other dearly and booked to work with each other whenever they could. Seb had dated Helen a few years back; luckily, they had survived the tempestuous interlude as mates.

“Seb, angel, where have we got to?” she shouted out in the general area of the mumbling.

“You’re late,” he grunted, like a spoiled child, from behind a vast sky-blue backdrop.

Seb hated sports gear jobs. It was whoring, but paid good money. Cheap logo, drab clothes, dim-witted overrated 41

sports celebrities unable to string a sentence together, with their interfering managers and hangers-on that had more of an ego than the star themselves.

At least today’s guy came alone, no entourage, just an aging ex-army action man, squeezed into an uncomfortably tight chauffeur’s uniform, parked up outside. Franco Rossellini didn’t say a lot. Some Italian pin-up footballer on £200 grand a week, no doubt. He wasn’t into football himself, more of a rugby man. But he had heard this guy was great on the pitch, pity he was ‘Mr. No Personality’ off it.

The brief for the shoot was typical: drape vastly overpriced clothing over the back of a famous drop-dead gorgeous guy, drape a blonde on top as bait, imply that ‘wearing this crap you too could have a cool sexy lifestyle’... the fact that the guy would look good in a bin liner with a nappy on his head doesn’t feature.

Manipulative brainwashing drivel but it paid the bills.

Sadly, the model he’d been sent for this job was finding it difficult to look remotely attractive. She needed a good meal and to stop snorting up the unhealthily large amount of cocaine stashed away in her makeup bag. The incessant talking and sniffing was driving him mad. They had taken five rolls of film and got nothing. All Franco needed to do was cuddle the girl in various poses. Fun, smiling, relaxed, the ‘just got out of bed’ look. Just getting into a coffin more like.

Franco was either very nervous or thoroughly bored. He held the giggling sniffing blonde at arm’s reach, as if he would catch something, looking totally ‘do not want to be here’. The model, who was initially chatting happily,

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fancying herself as the next hot football WAG, had tried desperately hard to put him at ease, but was now feeling snubbed and on the verge of getting over emotional. He felt a drama queen moment coming on.

To top it all off, Franco was sweating profusely under the lights, his face shining, driving the makeup artist to distraction. She had put so much powder on it was now beginning to clump in unsightly patches. Thank God they had booked the ever-professional multi-talented hairdresser, Anton de Menton, who was managing to allay her fears, whispering comfort to her over the coffee pot, as she dragged heavily on her Gitane cigarettes. “…it’s terribly sexy to be shiny, darhling. SO now. He is, after all, expected to sweat, being a highly trained athlete an’ all. Do you know how much that there body is worth, honey? Lordy, that sweat is pure gold nectar, dahling... now quit smoking, honey, it’ll give you craggy lips,” he waved away the strong-smelling smoke, “pooh!”

At last Tara was here. She was a good producer, had a knack of putting people at ease, and got the job done.

Maybe they would hit the deadline tonight after all.

“Tara, over here,” he came out from behind the backdrop.

They greeted one another with a big bear hug, all anger at her being late dissolved. He smelled the whiff of alcohol and cigarettes in her hug and felt a pang of jealousy; she had been having fun while he’d been slaving away. God, he needed a pint.

“Haven’t got it yet, but trying a softer backdrop. Franco was lookin’ a bit too mean and moody with the grey. The blue might do something with his eyes, in fact Tara,” his 43

voice lowered to a whisper, for her ears only. “Jeysus, total bloody disaster. I know the guy’s worth £45 million, feckin’ punt, but not in the modelling business, mate, and the girl is coked out of her feckin’ brains, if she had any… what a feckin’ mess.”

Eyes skyward, he clapped his hands loudly and walked out into the middle of the room.

“Ok everyone!” he shouted, “let’s try again. Lights… positions same as before.”

Anton squealed with excitement and shooed the others into action, the room lit up as Seb and his assistant, Mark, busied themselves around the camera and adjusted the lights. Tara went to the back of the studio, gratefully received the coffee from the expressionless receptionist, and slumped onto the sofa.

A young beautiful model skipped, a little too excitedly, out of the changing room, followed by the legend, Franco. Tara had only seen him briefly on TV clips from sports programs she would accidentally hit on while channel surfing. Had never paid much attention before; wasn’t into footballers; far too fragile and feminine looking; had slimmer calves then she… rugby players were more her scene, but he was delicious, or was it the wine from lunch?

What a body! She resisted the urge to wolf whistle. She could have sworn she heard the wonderful Anton sigh.

Looking over at him, she giggled and they gave each other a conspiratorial wink. Anton began feverishly waving the air in front of his face to cool down.

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The tune ‘It’s Raining Men’ came into her mind... yo! where are the girls when you need them, they would have loved this, he’s beautiful.

She wasn’t prepared for the sight of Franco; it was all she could do to keep her mouth from gaping. She made a note to get a life and end the dry patch; it was making her desperate and reducing her quality control; a footballer, for chrissakes! She was hardly WAG material, being over thirty, she was more like GAG material, ‘grandmothers and girlfriends’.

Beginning to feel the heat of a hormonal flush, she shifted her body deeper into the sofa, took a deep breath, and crossed her legs, trying to calm, to get some control over her man-starved body. She hadn’t squirmed like this over a guy since Ed; it was pathetic schoolgirl stuff. She crossed and re-crossed her legs; still not comfortable, her skirt rose up her thigh.

Franco caught the movement and looked over at her, bored.

He was so unfootball, not at all poncy, spoiled, delicate looking, but built like a strong, rugby-playing thug. The type that verbalized with a grunt rather than words. He had the ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ thing going on, and that John Wayne walk, wide-open legged as if his manhood led the way... why do guys walk like that, she mulled... is it something to do with the muscle structure, do they overwork that inner thigh muscle thing? She must remember to ask a gym trainer; actually, she must start going to the gym again... urrgh, she hated gyms.

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A footy boy and an Italian stallion… ohmigod, Tara, don’t even go there, asking for trouble, serious tacksville, be calm, be professional, work. Her heart began to speed up; it had been so long since she had felt man-induced palpitations like this… must be the caffeine.

The model sat on the stool in front of the heavily lit backdrop. Franco begrudgingly sauntered up behind her, a bored circus lion having performed his act a thousand times before. He didn’t notice Tara as she crept up to the camera to get a closer look, hovering behind Seb as he shouted instructions. She watched quietly, as two films were painstakingly taken.

Franco was asked to hold the model in front of him and smile cheekily over her shoulder at the camera, ‘the guy who had it all’ look. They tried various positions, all looked like cardboard. The model was lovely enough, but Franco was obviously not into it. Tara watched him closely; his intense lash-laden dark eyes followed direction from Seb, but he wasn’t enjoying it. He was too intelligent for this ‘playing the puppet’ lark. It was highly likely that he may walk out. She couldn’t afford to let that happen; it was her job to keep everyone in line.

Enough of this nonsense; the alcohol from lunch made her brave, if not a little bossy.

“Stop, please, everybody; one minute, Seb, can I have a word with Franco for a second?” she shouted in her best authoritative schoolmarm voice. All looked around to see who had spoken.

Without waiting for an answer, she marched out of the darkness from behind the camera, past a stunned Seb, strode on to the set, put her hand on Franco’s arm, and

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led him off before he could get his bearings. He was relieved to be away from the hot lights, but who the hell was this bird?

“I’m sorry, Franco; my name is Tara, I’m the assistant producer on this campaign. Apologies, I should have been here earlier to meet you but got delayed. I just want to stop wasting your time by having a quick word with you, follow me, please.”

Tara dragged the dazed footballer to the back of the studio in search of some privacy. She clicked a CD player into life as they passed an equipment-laden worktop; Marvin Gaye’s soulful tones of ‘Let’s Get It On’ filled the room.

She noticed the quizzical look on Franco’s face; maybe his English was not that good. Now, where could they talk? The loo was the nearest door she could spot. To the shock of the whole studio and Franco, she pulled the £45 million star into a scruffy entrance marked ‘Gents’, closed the door, and locked the heavy iron latch.

Luckily it was a spacious, old-fashioned, high-ceilinged, marbled gentlemen’s loo. A line of magnificent marble sinks proudly lined the facing wall, with an ancient mottled mirror hanging over them. A row of cubicles and a hat stand lay to the far left-hand wall. Sherlock Holmes came to mind, Seb was clever to have kept the old traditional features.

She turned happily to him, ready to make her much-used ‘boost the celebrity’s confidence’ speech, when she was bowled over by a torrent of Italian abuse (well, it could have been Italian, she wasn’t sure). It sounded distinctly 47

like “What the fuck is going on? I’ve had enough, I’m off!” this was not going to plan; he was not a happy chap; mustn’t upset the star, first rule of producing.

She leaned calmly against the line of sinks and let him rant on for a few minutes. Waving his arms, stomping up and down like a bull. Shit, he was lovely; she could almost smell his hormones... I guess this is what he is like at half time when his team are losing, such a delicious deep voice. His face began to glow again. She stood, arms and legs crossed, patiently waiting for him to finish.

Hands on hips, in the middle of the room, he suddenly stopped, as if realising she didn’t speak Italian. He looked at her properly for the first time, taking her in from head to toe. She assumed he was assessing her as a bossy bitch. His eyes could have killed; he looked ready to walk, again. She took her moment.

“OK…you—want—out—of—here.”

She talked painfully slow broken English, arms waving theatrically, pushing each syllable home with a nod of her head.

“We—want—job—done—everybody—happy.

You— listen—me. We—go—home—soon. I—show—you— how, ok?”

He couldn’t hold back any longer; his face broke into a huge smile.

“Why are you talking like an idiot?” he purred in perfect English, with just the hint of an Italian accent.

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“Shit… sorry,” Tara giggled, scrunching up her face and shoulders with embarrassment, wanting the ground to open up so she could disappear.

“I thought you couldn’t speak much English, what an idiot,” she hit her forehead with her hand, “duh...”

They giggled; the tension in the air loosened its grip.

“Look, we both want out of here ASAP. All you have to do is get a few shots of you holding the girl, looking happy and sexy. How easy can that be?” she pleaded.

He wasn’t convinced. Reluctantly he shrugged his huge beautiful shoulders… down girl, crossed his arms and listened to her. She wished he wouldn’t stand so provocatively, with his legs apart like that… concentrate, try not to look at his crotch. Too late, he caught her checking him out.

“I know you are bored, the girl is coked out of her head, the photographer is losing his rag, it’s hot under the lights, and not a football in sight,” she gave him a playful tap on his shoulder, trying to raise a smile.

“Watch,” she said as she spun around to face the mirror over the middle sink. Her hips leaned against the cool marble; her hands gripped the sides of the basin. He stood still behind her. Their conversation carried on through the age-mottled mirror.

“There is nothing to this acting game; just a bit of confidence. The mirror is what the camera sees. We’ll practice the look they want, take it out to the studio, repeat it with the model in front of camera, and then we 49

can all go home. All you have to do is pretend you are holding someone you really want,” she turned to look back at him over her shoulder; a thought came to her.

“Are you gay?” he didn’t flinch; sexy dark eyes stared back at her.

“Whatever,” ... oh God, what a waste.

“Just pretend. Here, it’s easy, put your arms around me… it’s ok, I won’t bite,” she smiled.

He didn’t move, arms crossed insolently across his chest.

He wasn’t making this easy for her.

“If you can fake a dive on the pitch, you can fake this, much less painful,” she thought she saw him wince; oops, had she said the wrong thing? She waited.

Nope, still nothing, face blank… legs still apart, watching her. Another tack was needed.

“Okay, what do you want? Do you want a drink? Do you want drugs, hookers, more money, ice cream, what?

You’re the star here; command whatever you want, but let’s just get it done, please…’cause I’m gonna be in the shit and lose my job if we don’t deliver this on time and within budget…please!!” she pleaded.

His eyes narrowed as he took in her last words; he came to a decision; finally he smiled.

“Ok, tell me what you want me to do,” he moved in close behind her; the heady sensual smell of him hit her first; the intense looking eyes hit her second; he patiently awaited instructions.

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The shift in energy within the room was palatable; an electrical current zapped through her. She squeezed her grip on the sink to steady herself. Here she was in a smelly ‘Gents’ with a bloke, the body of an Adonis, worth £45 million, leaning up behind her, expensive studio time and crew waiting outside the door, her job on the line, and stinking of garlic from her boozy lunch, it was beginning to feel very hot…she blew her fringe out of her eyes in an effort to cool down.

“Ok,” she cleared her throat, “lean in close… that’s it, now, put your arms here,” she reached back and pulled his solid arms around her torso, spreading his… large masculine…stop!…hands across her stomach.

“Hold me like I’m the FA Cup,” she ordered, impressed that she had remembered the name of a bloody football trophy. Where had that come from? TV osmosis had a lot to answer for.

He tightened his grip. Finally he looked comfortable holding something. She wondered what an FA Cup looked like.

“Good, now lean in and smile cheekily at the mirror, the camera. Rest your head on my shoulder, whispering something in my ear; you’re really happy, you’re about to get laid …what if he’s gay?... or…have just scored the winning try… I mean over, err… goal, or saved one…err…what position do you play again?”

She was babbling, trying anything that came to mind; the closeness of his body was making her giddy; he smelled SO delicious… concentrate girl!

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Her brain gabbled away, trying to keep her mind on the job… he’s probably a goalie; all that fearless leaping around; guess they work their upper and lower bodies, and his upper body is definitely worked.

Following her instructions a little too well, his lips brushed against her ear as if to whisper something; she felt his warm breath exhale and tickle her neck; instinctively she closed her eyes and let her head rock back against his… oops, am in trouble now. Her neck was one of the most sensitive parts of her body; touching it had a seriously sensual effect on her; it was one of her G spots, apparently, whatever that was, a past boyfriend had commented that it was a sure-fire way of getting her into the sack; it made her lose control.

Franco heard the small sound caught in the back of her throat; it was unexpected. Miss Cool had weakened a little. He surveyed her face in the mirror, eyes semi closed, head rocking back as if she were in heaven.

Actually she was cute; she had a sexy efficient secretarial look about her; he was beginning to enjoy this. He leaned into her; her body took his full weight, forcing her hips hard against the sink; she didn’t feel the pain.

Looking up, she caught his face watching her in the mirror; he had a full-on beaming cheeky smile, it was perfect; he looked so sexy.

“That’s it, Franco!” she squealed a little too loudly, “fantastic, that’s the look they want, let’s go outside and do it for the camera, quick.”

She wriggled to move out of his arms; he didn’t move.

She wriggled some more; he was not budging. Was that

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the beginnings of a hard-on she could feel nudging the bottom of her spine?

Franco felt her body stiffen; was she nervous or excited?

He would teach this know-it-all lady a thing or two. No way was he stopping just yet; he had only just started. He was gonna have some fun.

“I haven’t finished,” he growled into her ear, his lips barely brushing the fine hairs of her neck.

She jumped as his hands cupped her breasts. He felt their warm skin through the flimsy blouse material. She wasn’t wearing a bra; he liked that. This was too easy.

Reinforcing who was the boss, he slammed his hips hard against her ass. Dirt and dust powdered the air; as the sink’s rusty hinges smashed against the wall, the crash echoed the room. The force of the sudden strike expelled the air in her lungs with a groan.

She fell forward, her head just missing hitting the mirror.

Outstretched arms pushed up against the glass to steady herself. Releasing one of his hands from her chest, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, forcing it to lay on his shoulder, twisting her face to his, their mouths almost touching, her back arched, pushing her chest out, her arms flailed away from the glass. He had a firm hold of her breast in one hand and her scalp in the other. He meant business.

Silence.

Their eyes locked hard in the mirror; who would make the first move?

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What was he going to do, rape her? She glanced sideways to the door, she could scream out, cry for help; it was just the other side of that door.

Silence.

“What are you doing, Franco?” she spoke first, calmly, softly with a half smile, “if you want to fuck, ask, you don’t have to force yourself on me.”

Her voice was so low and soft that he had to strain to hear it; the absolute control in her tone took him by surprise. The position of power shifted. What was this… he started to release his grip.

“No… no… don’t stop,” she whispered, “I like it.”

Was she messing with him; what was she doing? She looked and felt so good; his cock was hard against her; it would be easy to take her right now. Ok, let’s see how far she dare take this.

Perspiration glistened across her chest and neck. Her body was getting hot; being locked in a hold like this was a turn-on. It had been so long since she had had a man touch her. She held her breath and silently begged him not to stop; every cell in her body began to tingle with excitement.

She arched her back further, causing the blouse to strain open across her chest. Noting the invitation, he couldn’t resist flicking the top three buttons to release beautiful, full tits. She didn’t flinch. He expertly dipped his hand beneath the material, following her face in the mirror; he gently rolled her left nipple between thumb and forefinger. Her response was immediate; her breath

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quickened, the nipple hardened. Half smiling, her head rocked back onto his shoulder; her knees slumped, giving him the weight of her body.

He nuzzled his nose against her neck, whispering encouragement to let go; his sultry accent and the tingling sensation brought on by his lips drove her mad.

It was so long since she had felt like this; he had no idea what he was unleashing.

Time to return the favour; she began a slow rhythmic grinding movement of her hips, rubbing herself into his crotch. His cock throbbed to life against her teasing ass.

He couldn’t believe it; she was horny as hell.

“Yeah, that’s it, keep moving, baby… that’s nice!” he whispered, his hips following hers, joining her rhythm.

Both hands now toyed, roughly kneading her heavy tits.

She moaned, head back, chest arched. Their hips danced, grinding in circles. Her supporting arm refound the coolness of the mirror and pushed hard against it, forcing her body back into him, meeting him with equal strength.

Her free hand went down between the top of her legs; she rubbed her fingers through the material of her skirt.

She was going too far, she knew it. She caught his eyes watching the movement in the mirror; they were so bloody powerful, with his sexy half smile; he had the look of just holding back before a great fuck, it would be perfect for the shoot. Should she stop and get him out there?

Before she could think, he released his grip and swung her around to face him. Holding her fast by the shoulders, 55

he yanked her into his chest and guided both bodies from the sink to the right-hand side wall. He pushed hard against her, forcing her back onto the welcoming cold marble wall.

“I’m gonna have you,” he whispered close into her ear.

She felt the heat of his mouth, smelled his breath; he was so fucking sexy, she arched her back with pleasure.

“Do it!” she ordered, grinning like the cat that’d gotten the whole fucking dairy farm.

His hands grabbed either side of her face and neck and pulled her close to his mouth. So close, but not touching… making her wait. Breathing in her smell, eyes on her mouth, watching her lips.

What was he waiting for? She couldn’t bear it any longer…

“Do it… Mr. Big Footballer… kiss me… all mouth and no trousers, are we?” she taunted.

He wouldn’t. He teased her with his breath; she felt it warm on her lips; she opened her mouth, reaching, begging to be kissed. He backed up as she neared him; he was enjoying making her wait... the bastard, she tried again and again... that’s it, having had enough, she grabbed the back of his head and forced his mouth onto her; her tongue sank into his warm, soft mouth. ... finally, he thought. God, she was sexy; this was getting beyond him now. He was hard and he knew she would be wet; he could just pull up her skirt and sink into her.

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They ate each other’s mouths hungrily, hands everywhere, groping, squeezing, pulling at clothing, their groans echoed the room.

BANG, BANG, BANG, the door shook.

“What the hell’s going on in there, Tara? We must get on…” Seb’s angry voice bellowed through the door, followed by the hammer of an irritated fist.

“Just coming, Seb.” Tara managed to unlock her mouth from Franco’s and push herself free.

“Literally,” she whispered with a giggle... shit, why is my sex life always such a disaster?

Franco staggered back into the centre of the room, pissed off at the interruption, but still smiling. They surveyed each other with laughing eyes as they quickly brushed down clothing, flattened hair, and did up buttons. Tara giggled at the tent effect in his crotch, the perfectly ironed designer tracksuit crumpled.

“Ok,” he said, grinning, “I’ll do it, but let’s get a few things straight. I’m not gay and I don’t dive... got it? And I’m a striker, not in goal... got it?”

She nodded, gratefully... what the hell’s a striker? does he hit people… sit on the bench, boycotting, refusing to work… I wonder if there is a terminology book I can buy somewhere?

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“And next time you’re gonna snog the face off me, let me have eaten garlic also… you’re lucky I love the stuff,” he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, licking his lips.

Tara cringed apologetically... ohmigod, shit, how embarrassing.

“So sorry,” she muttered flushing red. She had almost fucked a complete stranger, but breathing garlic on him was a complete no-no, SO not a good look.

He laughed at her Englishness, dragged his fingers through his hair, tugged at his collar, and turned to the heavy ‘Gents’ door. He pulled back the latch, swung it open, and strode out onto the studio floor as if nothing had happened. Tara timidly followed, walking a few steps behind, her knees weak, tell-tale perspiration on her top lip. Praying no one could tell what had just taken place.

The whole crew were waiting outside with bated breath.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Their celebrity looked thunderous.

He spoke firmly and clearly to a bemused Seb and the rest of the room.

“I want some classical music on, Strauss if you have it, or Mozart will do. I want the shoot to be done differently.

Tara will be in the shot with me. Her back will be to the camera. She will wear the clothes the model was wearing. The model gets double pay and champagne for all of us. You will try it my way; if it doesn’t work, we go back to your way. Otherwise, I leave.”

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They tried to talk him out of it; you couldn’t just change a story board at whim; hours of costly preproduction analysis had been put into a project such as this with every minuscule detail pondered over and agreed at numerous meetings and levels; Tara’s bosses wouldn’t like it, besides, she needed to get agreement from the New York office, which could take days, but he was adamant; it was his way or the highway. Finally, she was beaten down, against her better judgment, they played along with him.

It turned out to be the best shoot ever. The model was not put out for long, champagne and the wage packet helped; she ended up being the stylist and having fun, she was good; maybe she should change profession. Anton agreed, but gently warned her that she couldn’t support her cocaine habit on a stylist’s wages; it would have to go… hmmmm, she would have a rethink.

Franco was right. Tara’s blonde hair spread across the back of the client’s shirt was all that could be seen of the girl. No one could tell it was her, the crew were sworn to secrecy; her bosses would have gone mad at her for putting herself in front of the camera, but it was worth it, every female that saw these pictures in the future wished they had been the mysterious girl. Wished Franco was looking at them in that way, and holding them the way he held her.

He looked great, wrapping himself around the lucky blonde. His top was creased and had sweat patches on it (from his previous exertions? Seb wondered), but as Tara had said, this all added to the authenticity of the product; it was a sweatshirt, after all. He looked as if he had just had a very healthy workout and the clothes still looked 59

great, attracting a glamorous lifestyle and hot women, all part of the branding. Ad man, eat your heart out.

They played with each other in front of the camera for two hours; they got through a further six outfits, all with the same theme. It really worked, even when, on the last few shots, Tara, who knew by then it was in the can, sneakily whisked up Franco’s top over his body, revealing the most exquisite six pack she and the crew had ever seen. They all went berserk. Anton nearly fainted. Wolf whistles, screams of laughter, and chants of “more, more…”

Franco looked shy for a moment, but took it in good stead and pretended to retaliate by attempting to pull up her top, this made for great shots and everyone laughed until it hurt.

Seb was in his element. He loved the energy in the room.

Tara and Franco had real chemistry between them. He did not know what happened in the ‘Gents’ but whatever it was, he wanted to bottle it and use it again sometime.

The two of them were magic to watch. He couldn’t wait to get the film developed.

Six o’clock, Franco’s driver walked into the studio, putting an end to the day. Seb started organizing the crew to pack up, ordering the messenger for the processing lab to collect the films. He bear-hugged Tara, kissing her repeatedly from cheek to cheek with gratitude; he whispered, “I don’t know what you did, but it worked, you and he were great. I take everything back I said about footballers; he’s a sophisticated one, that one; a good sport, Mozart, indeed. Call me tomorrow; I’ll get the prints biked over to you.”

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He gave her another huge hug of thanks, squeezing the life out of her as she giggled to get free of his grip, and rushed off in a whirl of importance, screaming instructions to his crew in his delicious Irish brogue, ending with “and then, mine’s a pint…”

Franco had been watching their hugs, kisses, and intimate whispering from the other side of the studio. He suddenly felt foolish; the girl was into the photographer, they were laughing at him.

Tara turned to catch him observing, smiled, and hurried across the studio to walk him to his car; he seemed distant. Outside, the driver was waiting in the large black Mercedes, fingers impatiently tapping the steering wheel, the passenger door open, the engine purring.

“Thank you, you were great, I haven’t had so much fun in a long time,” she said, smiling at him, meaning it. She wondered how to subtly give him her number without coming across as a forward slut WAG wannabe.

He looked at her coldly and shook her hand politely, which seemed strange after all they had been through in the last few hours. Why the sudden change?

“It was a pleasure, Miss…err…?” he asked straightfaced, no hint of a smile.

She blushed with embarrassment. He didn’t even know her name, and they had just been sucking face and ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Warr…T...Tara Warr,” she faltered.

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“Thank you; it was a pleasure, Miss Warr, thank you for your help and professionalism. Goodbye.”

With that he turned, stepped into the car, and slammed the door a little too forcefully, she thought. She stared open-mouthed at the car door; tinted windows reflected her own gob-smacked image back at her. She quickly closed her mouth. The car slid effortlessly off to join the rush-hour traffic, leaving her alone on the pavement feeling bereft, confused, and dropped from a great height.

“What the hell! Men! Honestly… what planet are they on? I suppose he does this sort of thing all the time,” she huffed, confused, “of course I was only doing my job, it didn’t mean anything to me either!,” she yelled at the car as it turned smoothly into a side street, her words lost in the deafening din of London traffic.

She checked her watch. It was too late to go back to the office. The girls may have gone on for drinks somewhere; she deliberated joining them, but wanting to be alone, she opted to go straight home and wandered off down the street in search of an elusive black cab. She normally had the car, but didn’t drink and drive on girlie lunch days.

“Typical, bloody rush-hour traffic, bad time to get a taxi, I’ll probably have to walk for hours, and in these shoes,” she mumbled to herself, her mood having plummeted in just ten seconds.

“I hate men.”

What a shame; he had felt good, comfortable, funny. She could almost have fallen for him. Wrapping her arms

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around herself, she could still feel him on her; still taste his kiss on her lips.

“I wonder if he tastes mine? He probably still tastes the garlic… urrrgh… my love life stinks!”

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Chapter Eight

Soho, London, England Franco’s black Mercedes sped smoothly away from Seb’s studio, winding through the streets of London. His driver, Michael, knew the cheeky little back streets and one-way systems to twist in and out of, especially during rushhour traffic.

Franco lounged back into the soft leather seats. What the hell was all that about? The last thing he needed right now was a woman messing with his head. He groaned at the memory of the past few hours. He had the urge to turn and look back at her, standing in the street. But refused himself, keeping eyes sternly forward like a stubborn child.

“Michael, music please,” he quipped.

Franco avoided his driver’s eyes in the mirror; Michael would have sussed something was up, and he didn’t want conversation right now. Michael knew better, and at the

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press of a button, the elegant strings of Beethoven’s Symphony No.1 filled the car.

Franco took a deep breath and started to relax. The rich smell of leather filled his nostrils. The air-conditioning began to kick in. London sped past his window.

She was something else. How dare she treat him like a fool? It was a cheap setup with that photographer, whispering away to each other. She wasn’t into him, had just been using him to get the job done, and he had fallen for it, let his guard down... prick teasing putana!!

All women are the same. Easy to lay, hard to shake off.

All they wanted was your money. Why can’t he find a woman with style? She probably had a boyfriend at home, poor kid. He’s busy earning the money to keep her happy while she drops her panties all over town, giving it away. I did not even know her name… Warr, what kind of name is that anyway?

He flicked the lid of his cell phone, it buzzed into life.

Twenty-two messages... shit! With a sigh, he patiently dialled up his voicemail and listened through them; at least they would take his mind off her.

A few messages from his agent, Ned Bromley, Brommers to his friends, filling him in on some contract changes with Brompton FC, who Franco had been signed to for the past three seasons, helping them acquire a few pieces of silverware for the Directors’ Box cup cabinet.

Brommers was renewing his player contract; all was going well. He was a good agent, of the old school, when footballers were ‘men’ not ‘overpriced drama queens’ 65

and the Board of Directors were true lovers of the game, not corporate raiders.

Franco was an injury-free hot property at the moment with, allegedly, a few attractive offers on the table from other clubs. Brommers could therefore afford to squeeze the BFC Board on their deal. He had a charming knack of screwing a good deal out of club chairmen without pissing them off. He was one of the few agents that were respected within the industry. Never too greedy, no bungs, and made sure the club came out feeling they had got their money’s worth.

He was in demand; a naturally quiet, private man, he would reluctantly get dragged out to speak at football industry seminars, or advise clubs and governing bodies on a variety of player/manager matters. His direct ‘no airs and graces’ approach had earned him the name in the press of ‘Bulldog Brommers’.

Disquiet had been growing within the industry with the way less-than-scrupulous agents operated, their carnivorous abuse of power when conducting the financial movements of players. Brommers shared this unease and, with like-minded chairmen and governing bodies, was pushing for new laws and stipulations to be put into force to protect the club, the player, and ultimately the fans. But inevitably, where obscene amounts of money were involved, greed often triumphed.

Brommers had been around a long time. He kept his word; the world of football was very small. He knew the importance of respecting and nurturing all relationships, from kit man to chairman to the press. Be careful whom you shit on; they could be sitting across a boardroom

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table from you one day, making decisions about you or your ‘boy’s’ future.

He only took on players with a professional, hardworking ethos, had no time for babysitting spoiled egos.

Before taking a player on, he would look at the parents.

He had a general rule that a player with a solid family support system behind him was less likely to go off the rails once the damaging amounts of money and fame rolled in, therefore a better bet to invest years of nurturing, some players were just out of nappies, they needed caring protectors, not hangers-on and users.

He wasn’t a saint; he would be on call 24/7 if his boys really needed him but expected them to be grownups, run their own day-to-day minutia of life: pick up their own laundry; know how to avoid volatile nightclub situations; know what present to buy their girlfriend/mother; know when to say no to a press-hungry page three girl, or a prematch curry piss-up with the boys; know what clothes to wear, what bills to pay, what laws to adhere to; to turn up on time and drug-free for training, get on with the manager, and work their socks off. He didn’t want to be bothered with their private life every five minutes; that was their business; he respected them to get on with it.

This encouraged a mutual respect with his players, kept their feet on the ground, maintained street sense and touch with reality.

This way of working suited Franco. His last agent had tried to wet-nurse him; it got on his nerves. It worked for some players, but was dangerous, you could too easily get used to someone doing everything for you. Before you knew it, you were incapable of doing anything for yourself. You became reliant on the agent, frightened to 67

leave him, even if he was no longer right for you, you’d outgrown him, your fear of organizing the smallest details in life alone tied you to him like a resentful, expensive marriage.

Brommers also had respect for a true sportsman. Not pushing too hard for just the money-making deals, he would encourage space for training, rest periods, and family. He saw the player as a long-term investment, well after the playing days were over, encouraging whatever the player’s forte, be it TV and media or management and coaching.

Too many agents just looked at the main chance of the day, at lining their own pockets. They would fill a players’ diary with sponsorship deals, photo shoots, interviews, book launches, the opening of a paper bag, with an eye only on their own percentage. Before you knew it, the player was overexposed and out of control.

The press and public owned him, stalked him, burned him out. Yes, he was very pleased with Brommers. They had a mutual respect.

Hating the phone and idle chit-chat, Brommers got straight to the point; communiqués were curt. Franco did not need to call him back today unless he disagreed with the points raised. They would speak tomorrow.

Other messages were from his coach, his physio, his ex (Maria: seventeen missed calls!!!), and his newly acquired interior designer, Felicity Ramsey-Jones. Some arty-farty lady his chairman’s wife had kindly put him in contact with. Not knowing anyone else in the interiors business, he nervously took her on.

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His new flat in Chelsea had taken up more time and money than expected, but he was determined to be part of its creation and not leave it completely to a stranger’s taste. It would be his nest. He knew the feel he wanted but didn’t know how to create it. He had a sneaking suspicion that he and Miss Arty-Farty did not speak the same language, and it could cost him dear in the end, but he didn’t have time to traipse around stores choosing fabrics, paints and furniture, not to mention the public chaos his fame tended to cause. The traffic stopped if he stepped out to buy a newspaper.

Maria, his ex, a stunning, six-foot, emotionally challenged Brazilian twiglet of a model, had called seventeen times; she was driving him mad. They had dated for only three months, during which time they had split up three times. She had selective memory; each time she would conveniently ignore the fact that they were over and carry on as if nothing had happened. The making-up sex was great, although he suspected that it was the only time she ever really made an effort in the sack.

Why did he get bored so quickly? Would he ever find Miss Right? Like a good Italian boy, he had been spoiled by his strong, intelligent, independent, warm, loving, great cook of a mother. No one lived up to her strength of character; she was strong as an ox, yet soft as butter. A real ‘looker’ in her day.

Poor Maria, she may be a top model, with legs up to her armpits, but she didn’t stand a chance against his mum.

He would not be returning her calls, emails, letters, or text messages… what part of ‘it’s over’ did she not 69

understand? He wondered what ‘the end’ was in Portuguese.

Tara bounced back into his thoughts. A picture of her cute face made him smile. He licked his lips; he could still taste her, smell her. Shit, she turned him on; he hadn’t met anyone like her; sexuality oozed out of her.

He tried to shake her face out of his head, but it remained, the warm feel of her body in his arms wrapped itself around him… he relented.

Closing his eyes, leaning back into the seat, remembering the feel of her, the immediate reaction to his touch.

Maybe she was genuine; maybe she liked him and wasn’t a using whore… nah… he chided himself for being naive. She was easy to take. Had that photographer not interrupted, he would have been inside her in seconds.

The thought excited him.

“Shit, stop this,” he said aloud, shaking his head.

Michael looked up into the mirror.

“Sorry Boss?” “Oh, nothing, talking to myself, Michael, forget it,” he waved away the words.

The boss had it bad, thought Michael, bet my bottom dollar it’s that bird he left back there on the street, not a bad bit of posh totty. Maybe she turned him down. Better than that snooty bitch of a stick-insect, Maria, any day. A ‘module’ bird was ok for five minutes, but what do you do wiv em once you’ve shagged em? Convo isn’t exactly riveting... guess you could discuss colonic irrigation verses laxatives or the price of false eyelashes, but after a

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while it’s a bit borin. What the boss needed was a decent bird with a bit of meat on ‘er and a brain.

Michael turned the car into a discreet side street off the Kings Road; he flicked a remote control to open private gates and expertly manoeuvred it into the tight confines of the underground car park, that nested beneath a block of luxury flats. Franco had the penthouse, he said goodnight to Michael, agreed on the pick-up time for morning training and took the lift from the car park to the top, the eighth floor.

In the lift, he checked his appearance in the mirror and thought about the photo shoot. He had really enjoyed it.

He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room but her. They had laughed and laughed, it felt natural, easy, they just played with each other like children. He had relaxed and opened up to her, acted the fool to entertain her. But as they were leaving she clicked off, job done, mission accomplished, giggling with the photograph, patting each other on the back. He realized it was all part of the job for her, it didn’t mean anything. He felt stupid, used. She probably did this all the time, but he was private and found it difficult to trust so readily, not for the camera, not for anybody.

Doubts began to seep in as to whether it had been a good idea to take on the campaign. He could imagine the stick he was going to get from his teammates, not to mention the opposition, when the advertisements came out, his big grin everywhere. He had a reputation of being a tough, silent type. This wussy romantic stuff was going to blow it for him; he would look a right plonker.

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Staring blankly at his image in the mirror, waiting for the lift to chug its way to the top, he thoughtfully stroked his chin. He never smiled, but for the past few hours he had smiled so much his cheek muscles hurt. Remembering her laughter, another smile came to his face. Maybe he should give her another chance.

Yep, he would think of a way to meet up and test her out; everyone deserves a second chance. At worst he might get a shag out of it. But if he were honest, it would be good to finally find someone who lasted longer than a few dates. He was getting old and lonely of late, sensing it was time to settle down on the female front, find a soul mate with hot chemistry, and get cosy in the nest he was building; all he needed was the right bird to share it with.

Tara Warr might not be her, but he would have fun finding out.

The doors of the lift opened to the sound of a cheerful ‘ping’… yeah, he would give her another try... watch out, Miss Warr, Franco is out to get ya.

“Ready or not, here I come,” he sang, as he gave a cheeky little sauntering walk to his front door, Mozart forgotten.

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Chapter Nine Josie sat at her overburdened dressing table, staring blankly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, lost in a childhood memory of watching her mother apply makeup, longing for the day when she could do the same.

As a little girl she dreamt of growing up to be a beautiful princess like her mum. Truth was she was the result of drunken one night stand, well not even a night, it was a five minute fumble back stage at an after show party with the lead singer of a struggling rock band. He had never been seen again, her mum, a struggling single parent on benefits, gave her all the love she could, when she wasn’t hitting the bottle. She grew up an Oxfam kid, dressed in second hand clothes; she was never likely to be a princess. How did her life ever get this complicated?

Turning to the bedside table, she squinted to read the alarm clock. It was 8 pm already... fuck it! Time to get a move on, time to become Josephine. She grabbed at her 73

hairbrush and pulled it through her freshly showered hair.

Her makeup was perfect, thick, heavy, sophisticated bordering on slut, enough mascara to sink a battleship.

Painting Josephine on took precisely one hour. The wig, a thick, black, shoulder-length, square-fringed bob began the look, very French. The little black dress, suspenders, stockings, and ‘fuck me’ stilettos with bondage anklet straps completed the look. A simple formula.

God, men were so easy. It took more than packaging to turn her on, but then women were more complicated, they needed chemistry, something to take their breath away. A knowing look in a guy’s eye that said he understood her, could see right into her, and would just wait til she caught up with the fact that he was the one, confidence was a turn-on. He could be big, fat, bald, and ugly, but knowing and understanding a woman, how she ticked, how to make her feel safe, loved, was very sexy.

Dream on, there were few out there.

Whatever, the majority of men were jerks. In her line of work she had lost respect for them. They were generally interested in their dicks and power, and how to enlarge both.

She scanned the table top for her perfume. She stood up, sprayed the air in front of her, and stepped into the mist.

The cheap smell settled on her clothes. She laughed; perfume should only be smelt when you were up close, a subtle sensual hit on your senses as you passed by or leaned in to kiss. Knowing the rule to be wasted on the men she had to deal with, she sprayed the length of her body, wearing enough to wake the dead.

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Her cold cynical side liked to rubbish her romantic side.

With every starry-eyed dreamlike thought, came back a cutting crude remark. She had developed into two people, two names, two lifestyles, two codes of conduct. Josie helped her through the shame of Josephine, helped to distance her from the disgust. Each had their own dressing table at opposite ends of her bedroom.

Josephine was a hooker, a high-class hooker, but a hooker. She came expensive, so to speak. In fact, she never ‘came’ at all, only faked orgasm if needed to, to speed on a slow client to climax; time was money. Her two favourite things, orgasms and kissing, were kept for herself. She didn’t kiss clients, at least it was one part of her they did not invade; they normally had dreadful halitosis anyway.

She also refused to do anything with animals, drugs, electricity, excrement, multiple participants, sucking toes, or anal (unless the guy paid treble the fee and he had a very small dick), and she insisted on condoms. There were terms and conditions in all aspects of life, even prostitution.

The worst aspect, apart from the dirty humiliation of being ‘used’ by complete strangers, was the loneliness.

She couldn’t bring herself to share the burden of her secret. Her mum and friends thought she had a job in the city, dealing in stocks and shares, the type of work that didn’t encourage questions; eyes would glaze with over with boredom if she ever had to elaborate.

She actually loved the finance business, kept up to date on the form, and soaked up the relevant daily papers and information sites. She cultivated a small group of city 75

clients for inside information and tips. She had invested a little and was not doing badly for a novice, even in today’s tricky climate.

She bluffed her way through life with a fictitious day job and a dodgy night job. She wished she could tell Helen and Tara, but didn’t want to risk losing them. Her mother could never know; it would kill her, and what man in his right mind would ever marry her, knowing her history?

She hated herself, more so for the weakness in not being able to give it up. She had been a good student, worked hard, was brighter than most. As her mother did not have the finances to cover university fees, pole dancing in sleazy Soho clubs offered the key, it also offered an introduction to wealthier clients that wanted to see her on her back, not up a pole.

Where had it all gone wrong? She had promised herself she would stop once the degree had been paid for.

Money! Money was too much of a pull. With it she had been able to buy into a great lifestyle for her and her mum, she found it difficult to downgrade. Josie had fun spending Josephine’s hard-earned cash.

Josephine earned up to £2,000 a night and up to £10,000 for a weekend (depending on what part of the world she was needed in). Where else could she earn that money in only a few hours a day? Office girls prostitute their mind and body for eight or nine hours a day for less than that in a month. Once they have worked their ass’s off, suffered the daily sardine rush-hour, sweated buckets of free overtime for an ungrateful boss; where are they left at the end of the day? With very little pay, arthritic typist hands, an unreliable pension, little thanks, and traded in

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for a younger prettier version once the fickle boss or HR (Human Remains) Department tired of them.

It was hard to swap £2,000 a night for £30,000 a year.

Not to mention holidays, twenty-five days a year, what the fuck was that? Slave labour!!

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she chided her mirror reflection, “get on with it, take the buggers for what you can. Build up your portfolio until you can be free; retire with mum in the sun.”

She decided to finally tell the girls. Real friendship would survive the confession, knowing them, they may even find it a giggle and she would wonder what the hell she was worried about all these years.

The doorbell went; it was her taxi. Throwing the few essentials into her tiny cocktail bag, Josephine legged it out of the flat in a waft of cheap-smelling but very expensive perfume.

In the back of the cab, she checked her little black book; tonight’s client was new to her. Her booking agency knew of him; his normal girl, Polly, had done a runner, disappeared overnight. She had been called in as a replacement, as she and Polly were experts in the same fields. She read through his instructions for the evening’s entertainment. With new clients, she often took a driver with her, a ‘guardian’ that would sit in the car ready to pounce at the first sign of any trouble. But if he was a regular of Polly’s, he would be fine; she could handle it, so didn’t book one.

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She was having second thoughts driving through the streets of London, as the smart Chelsea address was actually becoming the rough end of Brompton Court Road. Borderline Chelsea... oh heck, what the hell, if he could afford to pay through the nose for this; he couldn’t be too dodgy… could he?

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Chapter Ten

Helen was bored, bored, bored.

She had everything and nothing. She filled up her diary with beauty treatments, therapy appointments, training sessions, cocktail parties, gallery openings, memorial services (drinks parties for the old), and numerous mindnumbing dates with a string of unsavoury lovers.

Anything to fill up her aimless empty days of doing absolutely fuck all. Anything to forget her fears of not being worthy, loved, respected, attractive. The more she sought affirmation, the more it evaded her.

Even sex was beginning to bore her. The only things she enjoyed these days were accessory hunting expeditions (shoes and handbags) and Friday lunches with the girls, these were sacred.

She had shopped, shagged, and partied for England. Been pampered at every luxury resort and health spa known to man. Drank more champagne and ate more designer food than was good for her. Funded and dismissed enough shrinks to hold a conference. Had body parts subtly 79

reconstructed in most parts of the world. Could acquire any whim she desired and still wasn’t happy.

The only thing she hadn’t yet tried was joining a cult religion, it was all the range amongst the Hollywood set, but she feared they may curtail her little luxuries: designer bling, champagne, oysters, extramarital sex, swearing, and surfacing from her bed at midday… or maybe yoga, that seemed popular, once you had got past a room full of sweaty ‘origami’ bodies farting. Or hot yoga… what the hell was that?

All this for what? What was the meaning of life anyway, for God’s sake? She surely couldn’t just be here to shit, shag, shop, eat, wrinkle up, and fall off her perch? She craved a reason to be, an ambition, a reason to get up in the morning, structure to her day. Why was she here, what was the point? Her latest shrink said she needed to love herself before she could love others and have a fulfilled life... what was there to love about herself? She was lazy, ugly, worthless, bored.

Since her parents had died, and she and her brother David had inherited a large amount of cash, she had been through all manner of emotions: disbelief, sadness, anger at them leaving, joy at having so much money, guilt at having it, a hate of it, now she was just plain bored with spending it, feeling empty.

Her father had been a strangely quiet man, his feelings kept well hidden, more so since her mother had died in a car crash when she and her brother were still at school.

They had always been comfortable financially, attended private schools and enjoyed expensive holidays, but nothing too extravagant; she thought her father had just got by. His wealth had been a shock.

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The siblings were sent to boarding school. Their parents, although basically good people, didn’t really want to be bothered with children. They were of the ‘old school’ where children were seen and not heard. Their father was often away working; he did not feature much in their lives. Their mother loved them in her own way, but was too much of a popular party animal to have to fuss with motherhood; it was far too tricky with a martini in one hand, and a cigarette holder in the other. In the Howard household, 6 pm could not pass without the clinking sound of ice being chucked into a cocktail shaker; the start of an evening’s drinking.

Her oldest memories were of her mother leaning over the side of the bed to kiss her good night, jewellery clinking, mingling wafts of expensive perfume, cigarette smoke, and hairspray, long manicured nails stroking the side of her face. Alcohol breath kisses on her cheek. The swish of designer skirts as she rushed out of the room, late for some glamorous party or other.

It was driving home from one of these parties that she lost it on a bend one night. A little too much to drink, the coroner had said. When she was alive, her husband hadn’t shown her, or anyone, much emotion; this was probably why she looked to the parties for adoration and company. After her death, they realized that he worshipped her.

Since the day of the crash, he had been dying of a broken heart. It took him three years to join her. He lost himself in his work, amassed a small fortune in the process, had a heart attack, and left everything to offspring he barely knew.

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The money made David even more eccentric; he had become dark and introverted. He didn’t work and hardly bothered to see his sister, unless she tracked him down out of duty every now and then.

They would meet for dinner; she would make small talk, desperate for some form of affection from him. He was her only family and she felt guilt at the way she had relentlessly teased her little brother in their youth.

Although she had had many boyfriends, especially since acquiring her money (funny that), none seemed to last; none felt genuine or gave her self-esteem; eventually she got bored with them and moved on to the next, except one. Seb Maloney was the one love that got away, the one she thought she had had a chance with. She managed to pretend it didn’t matter and remained friends with him.

He was one of the girls’ gang; they all loved him.

She had a fling with him years ago, just pre-money, when she was a young naive runner in an advertising agency and he a lowly photographer’s assistant, both on a pittance wage, working long hours. They bumped into each other on a set for a deodorant ad. They had remembered each other from their school days, Seb and her brother had attended the same school. They got chatting and met for a drink after the shoot. She had always fancied him, even at school, but now fell in love even more with his handsome bearlike scruffy looks and soft sexy Irish accent.

They got on really well; he was so easy to talk to and very funny. They spent many nights at her tiny studio flat but he just didn’t seem to fancy her sexually. They would cuddle up and kiss through the night but he always had an excuse not to have full sex, too tired, too drunk, pulled

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a muscle playing rugby, match of the day was on TV. There were many aborted, embarrassing blow jobs.

She had great panic attacks thinking she was not sexy, or he had someone else who he bonked ceaselessly during the day and was empty when he met her at night, or he was impotent, or she was too fat, or she was just not attractive. The list went on, spiralling her into more and more low self-esteem.

Candles, sexy music, naughty underwear; she tried it all.

Even coming on to another guy at a party, in front of him, in an effort to make him jealous. Nothing, just the same old friendly, lovely, one of the girls, Seb. She wanted to ask him what the problem was, but worried that the minute you question a man about his sex it makes it worse, the spontaneity would go; he would lose his libido, they would have no chance of sorting it out. She just pretended that she was ok with it all in the hope that he would change. Day by day she lost a little more self esteem.

Eventually, she broke down one night and told him everything she felt. An argument ensued, ending with him storming out. The following day her worst nightmare came true; he finished it. Using crass words to the effect that it was not her, it was him, he was not good enough for her, she should find someone better than him, could they still be friends?

He became the main topic of her therapy sessions; after time and many boyfriends, the pain dulled. He was now a successful, flavour-of-the-month photographer. She couldn’t help but be proud of him and assumed he now 83

had his choice of a host of glamorous models and would be shagging for England, she never had felt good enough for him. He was out of her league.

It was a shame, if only she knew the truth.

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Chapter Eleven

Sixteen years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England Seb and David had been at school together for years.

Although they were the same age, their paths hadn’t crossed as they were in different ‘Houses’. Each year of Heddington Hall boys was split into four Houses: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Houses would compete against each other through yearly exam results and sport competitions. Seb was in Matthew House, David in Luke House. Except for morning assembly, sports days, and end-of-year theatre productions, boys from each House would barely mix.

Their personalities were poles apart: Seb was the popular, sporty, creative type, while David had turned from a fun loving little boy into a solitary, moody, science geek.

Vivisection was David’s thing. He could often be found in the school laboratory, secretly conducting tests on the effects of chemicals on the bodies of rats, mice, frogs, earthworms, insects (any live creature he could get his 85

hands on) before skilfully dissecting what was left of them, ‘playing God’ he liked to call it.

His gullible science professor had a crush on him and hailed him as a budding genius, naively imagining that, under his tutelage, his gifted pupil would go on to accomplish notable feats within the world of science.

Consequently, David was given a key and free rein to use the science lab whenever he wished. This allowed him the privacy to move on to larger, unethical cargo: cats, dogs, and deer. He kept these illegal carcasses hidden from prying eyes. David knew it would be a matter of time before he practiced his honed talents on human flesh. He looked forward to it.

Thus with the boys in different Houses, David living the life of a lab rat and Seb out on one games pitch or another, their paths at Heddington Hall did not cross.

Until one night after supper, Seb, late from cricket practice, was chasing through dormitory corridors to fetch a book he needed for homework. To save time, he had bravely taken a short cut through the dorms of ‘the enemy’, Luke House, to get to his dorm in Matthew House. Illegal territory; he would be fair game for a beating if caught. But Seb could move fast, and was one of the beefier guys in the school, which gave him the cockiness to believe he could fight off anyone, and he normally did.

He passed an open door to a Luke boy’s dorm; on hearing faint sobbing noises followed by a dull thumping sound, curiosity got the better of him. He skidded to a halt and cautiously backtracked to look inside. Was someone getting a hiding? It was not uncommon for boys to take a beating, especially if they were new, small or

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simply gained the cowardice attentions of a bully. Maybe he could help out, take the interest off the victim for a bit, his crazy Irish madness fancied a bit of a chase, a bit of a punch-up... bring it on!

Peeking around the door, he saw the dorm was in darkness, large bay windows ran the length of it. The curtains were open, allowing the sun of the evening sky to bathe the room in a beautiful orange red glow; windowpane shadows crisscrossed the floors, walls and orderly rows of beds.

The sobbing sound came from the other end of the dorm; he had to peer further around the door to source it.

Adjusting his eyes to the light, he quickly scanned the room. A row of sinks lined one end and narrow wardrobes the other, small wooden bedside cabinets separated the beds, a large wooden crucifix hung on each wall. The normal decor for a Heddington Hall dorm, stark and cold.

He couldn’t spot movement, but he could hear laboured breathing, where was it coming from? Finally, he saw it, the silhouette of a boy, covered in the orange red glow of the setting sun. He was alone, standing, facing the back wall, head bent, resting his forehead against the brickwork. It took a moment to realize that the boy was naked. Seb took a sharp breath.

Apart from Rugby, Seb loved photography. It wasn’t considered a macho subject to take, there were very few in his class, and he was teased mercilessly by his mates, but he cared less. He had always been fascinated in the magic of light and the ever-transforming ways it hit surfaces. It was a passion.

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He was shocked by the beauty of this scene. The light from the sun cast great finger-like tentacles across the room, slowly moving, creeping forward, as if reaching for the boy. Sweat shone on his heaving skin, highlighting his toned muscle. He was beautiful, celestial. It would have made a great photograph; he wished he had had his camera with him. Drawn to the scene, he stepped into the room.

The boy gently rocked his body backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. Low pained sobs shook his shoulders. Without warning, he violently flung his head back and smashed it forward hard against the wall. Seb jumped with the force of it. The boy repeated the movement over and over with increasing strength. Seb realized that the dark shadow on the wall where his head had been resting, was in fact a sticky mass of blood. He must have been doing this for a while... what the hell was he doing? That had to bloody hurt.

The rhythm was mesmerizing. Seb stood transfixed. A hot flush of voyeuristic guilt washed over him. He shouldn’t be watching, it was private, it felt wrong. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He wanted to shout out, but words caught paralyzed in his throat.

The boy looked to be the same age as Seb; his young toned body had started its burst through puberty. He followed the lines of the limbs, and the curved hollow above the buttocks. A textbook specimen of the male form, a Roman statue; where was his bloody camera when he needed it; this would have been a great nude study.

Seb felt a strange excitement flood over him; he had an urge to reach out and touch, to follow the downy lines of

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the boy’s skin with his hands. The feeling shook him.

Where had that come from? How could he want to touch another boy? How could he find beauty in this violent act? This was sick.

The boy began to tire, his body hunched with pain, he came to a halt. He dropped his face into his hands, fell against the wall and sobbed. Blood trickled through his fingers and dripped to the floor. The crying slowed; his breathing began to calm. Seb held his breath; finally it was over, he could leave. But just as he turned to tip-toe out of the door, the boy started again. With more force, he smashed his face again and again against the wall; the sound of bone cracking pierced the air. The pain escalated; he began to retch bile between blows. Blood and spit trickled down his chest... how could he stand it? why was he doing it? should I call a master? sickbay is in the next block, I should get help. There was an emergency phone in the corridor he could use.

Feeling a presence, the boy abruptly stopped and turned nervously to the doorway; squinting through the dim light, he stared at Seb. Seb held his breath; he had never seen such a striking face. He hadn’t seen him before; he must be a new boy.

“You’re not going to tell Sir are you?” pleaded red, watery eyes. Blood mixed with tears and trickled down his cheeks.

Seb, expecting anger, was surprised at the weakness in the voice. “Err… no, of course not, err… are you ok?

Can I help?” he stuttered, walking sheepishly into the room, trying to judge whether he was welcome or not.

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The boy stared back, anxiously scanning Seb, making a judgment. Silent tears ran down his cheeks; watery tracks trailed through the blood. Seeing Seb as no threat, he relaxed. Exhausted and shaking with cold, he slumped onto a bed. As with all the beds, it had been neatly made; a grey woollen blanket and crisp white linen sheets with perfect hospital corners. Cleanliness was next to godliness at Heddington Hall.

“No, no one can help, Mother is dead, I want to die,” he whispered.

Seb walked tentatively through the middle of the room, between the two rows of beds, trailing his hand along the foot of each as he passed. He sat down beside the boy, reached out, pulled him into his chest and cradled him.

He didn’t know what he was doing; he was just going on instinct. They sat for a while, silent, rocking backwards and forwards to the rhythm of the boys sobs.

He looked down at the head nestled into his shoulder, its soft dark hair damp with sweat. What must it be like to lose your mother? How would he have coped? He couldn’t imagine anything worse. He would call his mother tonight after prep and tell her he loved her. He almost felt a tinge of guilt for his mum still being alive.

Rocking silently, he began to whisper encouragement.

“It’s ok... shhhhhh…it’s ok…you’re gonna be ok…it’s ok.”

Seb was used to bodily contact in a rugby scrum, but not used to tenderness, not even with his lovely mum; if she ever tried to cuddle, he would push her away with boyish embarrassment. He had cuddled the beloved family pet once when it had been knocked by a car and badly

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shaken. He had held the little black Labrador, aptly named Chaos, for hours, rocking it gently, until the shivering, whimpering subsided.

This felt similar…weird, but the right thing to do.

They sat rocking for half an hour, until the boy was drained of tears and his breathing relaxed to normal. Seb cleaned his face and chest with a wet towel and helped him into bed, pulling the sheet and blanket over him, trying not to look at his nakedness. He wiped down the bloodied wall as best he could, sullying a few more towels in the process. His own white cricket shirt was covered in blood...shit, his mum would go mad. The boy’s eyes followed him as he worked.

Having done all he could, Seb started to leave; the boy broke the silence.

“Please don’t go; stay, hold me; I’m frightened, please,” his eyes begged, his breathing began to accelerate with panic. He looked so scared; Seb didn’t have the heart to say no.

“Ok, just five minutes, then I must go, I’m in so much trouble with Sir, I’ve missed prep. If I fail my algebra test again, I’m in deep shit.”

Seb kicked off his shoes and lay out on top of the blanket, alongside the boy. Squeezing two bodies onto the cramped space was awkward, so the boy snuggled in closely under Seb’s arm and rested his head on his chest.

They lay in silence; the boy’s breathing became light and rhythmic, as if asleep. Seb started to pull himself away gently, trying not to wake him. The other boys would be 91

up from prep soon; it was time for bed. He could not be caught like this; no one would understand. As he tried to ease away the boy awoke, pulling frantically on Seb’s arm, pleading with him not to leave, why is he so scared?

The boy then leaned in close and kissed Seb lightly on the lips, taking him by surprise. A thousand thoughts scrambled into Seb’s head... what the hell? Frozen, wideeyed with shock, Seb didn’t move, couldn’t move. The boy leaned in again and gave a more lingering kiss. He should have hit the boy, jumped out of bed in disgust, and run out of the room.

But he didn’t; he wanted to stay; it was so unbelievably soft; he liked it, wanted more. Placing his hand around the back of the boy’s head, he pulled their faces close to touching. Their eyes locked, and with a hesitant exhale of hot breath, they kissed again long and slow. Lips parted, tongues tentatively searched out, danced around each other, tasting, feeling, delving deep into each other’s mouths, so warm and soft and gentle, it felt magical.

Seb felt himself go hard; he couldn’t stop it. The boy felt it also, nudging against his side. He smiled and stared up into Seb’s eyes; he wasn’t surprised or shocked.

“It’s Ok,” he said coquettishly, “do you want me to touch it?” he reached down and expertly ran his fingers along the length of the bulge in Seb’s cricket shorts. Seb groaned with pleasure as his cock lurched forward, asking for more.

RING RING - RING RING - RING RING The end-of-prep bell clanged loudly throughout the building, making the boys jump; it signalled time for

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pupils to go to their dorms, bedtime. Seb jumped off the bed and scrambled to the door.

“Sssssorry, must go, sssorry, sssorry,” he stammered as he flew out of the room, joining the noisy throng of boys in the corridor, as they returned from prep, running too fast for them to realize that he was ‘the enemy’ or that his shirt was covered in blood.

He ran and ran until he got to his own room. Went into the bathroom and locked the door. With tears, he masturbated hard until his aching cock relinquished its shameful juice. Staring at his face in the mirror, he looked like a stranger. What had he done? What had he been about to do? It was disgusting. He must never see that boy again. Never tell anyone. He cried into his pillow that night. He feared that he would never be the same again, he must fight it, forever if he had to; there was no way he was like that.

The next day, a six former had been sent to find him and pulled him into the Headmaster’s study. Thinking he was in for an ear bashing for missing study prep the night before or that they had found his blood-stained shirt stashed beneath his mattress, Seb stood fidgeting nervously in front of the Head’s desk. The smell of wood polish and old books, nauseous.

“Maloney, dear boy,” bellowed the overbearing Headmaster from behind his desk, “I hear you looked after poor Howard last night, lost his mum in a car crash you know, very sad affair. He leaves Heddington Hall today, all too much for him, collapsed you know. Well done, lad, for being grown-up for him; needed a good shoulder to cry on, no doubt.”

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He took off his glasses and leaned his large bulk across the wide desk, staring directly into Seb’s eyes. The meeting was taking a sinister turn. Seb felt a shiver go through him; he wanted to get out of there, he felt sick.

“If you hear anything, and I mean anything, from young Howard, let me know immediately,” he glared hard until Seb realized that he was meant to reply.

“Yyyes Sir, of course, Sssir,” he whispered, losing his voice with fear.

“Now, off you go,” he waved Seb away as he would a troublesome fly.

It was only years later, when Seb was dating Helen, that the memory came back to haunt him. Looking at a photo she had of her and David in an old frame by her bed, he recognized him immediately.

“Oh, that’s my brother David, he was at Heddington Hall with you; don’t suppose you remember him.”

Did David remember him?

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Chapter Twelve

Chelsea, London She jumped out of the black London taxicab and paid the chatty driver through the window. He had regaled her throughout the journey on what he would do if he were Major, from banning rickshaws to parks, to re-phasing traffic lights, stricter policing and stringent roadwork control. The city just needed to be kept moving. She agreed he should run for Mayor, a taxi driver knew London better than anyone.

She popped her receipt and change in her purse and turned to survey the building she was to enter. What a tip, how could someone live here and be able to afford her?

This job had requested a bit of S&M; maybe he had hired an appropriate venue to complete the fantasy.

She felt for the security of the little flick knife she carried in her bag. Yep, it was there. She was in no mood for idiots tonight; one dodgy move and she would deball the guy.

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Should she have taken a guardian after all?... nah! what the hell, let’s get it over with. She was in a crabby premenstrual mood; just let someone try and mess with her... make my day, I’ ll cut the whole ‘effing tackle o ff!

She pondered if a guy could die through loss of blood through his dick, she guessed probably, when hard, there was a lot of blood channelling through that little piece of kit.

She followed the steps down to the basement, trying to ignore the dustbin stench, grateful to have poured on copious amounts of perfume. 8:30 pm, right on time. She liked to be professional in these matters.

Ringing the doorbell, she sang, “come ‘an get it,” under her breath.

He opened the door immediately; he must have been standing behind it, waiting for her. He stood back so as not to be seen from the street. He looked ridiculous, but she didn’t miss a beat. His head was covered in a black leather mask; holes were cut for his eyes, nose, and mouth. Droplets of sweat had started to accumulate at the neckline where a large silver buckled strap dug into his throat. He must have been waiting in the uncomfortable contraption for a while. Good, thought Josephine, he would come quicker.

He wore a black silk kimono, loosely tied at the waist.

Large red and pink flowers were painted on the billowing sleeves.

“Very dramatic, a drama queen, urrgh, boring… Madame Butterfly or what?” she sighed to herself.

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She had been briefed on the style of job he wanted. She fell into her part with ease. Hands on hips, she barked in a clipped lady-of-the-manor voice, “About time, you stupid boy! I have been standing here for an age waiting for you to answer this blessed door.

It’s just not good enough; you need to be punished. Stand aside, you idiot, let me in.”

She knew he would not speak unless directed to; it was part of the game. He stood aside, meekly bowing, and silently waved a hand for her to enter. She stepped inside; the door was shut quickly behind her. The flat was luxurious, beautifully decorated. She had been in so many luxury pads nothing much impressed her anymore; at least it meant he had the money to pay the bill.

“On your knees!” she barked.

He fell to the floor, head bowed, on all fours.

“Now piss off, don’t come back until you have removed your gown and brought me today’s toy,” she kicked him sharply in the ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch of steelpointed stiletto connecting with flesh and bone.

He winced but said nothing. She kicked him again, harder, taking care that the bruise would not be seen. One could hardly have a judge or politician preaching to their adoring public covered in rope burns, whip cuts, and stiletto bruises.

“Chop, chop, we haven’t all day, young man,” her loud crystal cut voice stung his ear drums.

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She adopted the sloaney upper-class accent when she worked; men loved it. For some reason it was a turn-on to fuck a posh bird. If only the girls could see her now, they would have giggled at her perfect pronunciation.

Click, Click. the hidden camera was on a timer, she didn’t hear it.

He turned and scurried off down the corridor on all fours, slipping farcically on the silk material of his kimono, his bulk of a body cowering and pathetic under his mistress’s glare.

With a theatrical bored sigh, she strutted into the living room, scanning it for suitable furniture, structures to use in their game play. Her eyes landed on the white mini grand piano in the corner. It had a large mirror hanging on the wall behind it. Perfect, they loved to watch themselves being humiliated. Mirror voyeurism was a powerful aphrodisiac.

Turning to survey the rest of the room, she spotted a large bowl of chocolates on the sofa side table, with a swoop of her hand, she naughtily popped one in her mouth, it was delicious. She smiled, this was the ideal type of job for her tonight, especially in the aggressive mood she was in, dishing out punishment and eating chocolate were the only solution. Now, where the hell was he?

“Hey, you boy, where are you? Come here this instant!” she bellowed.

He came running down the corridor to the room and stood naked in the doorway like a frightened child, his small jiggling manhood looked pitiful against his tall muscular frame. She wondered what profession he was

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in; he was possibly famous, masks had the added bonus of remaining anonymous, useful when ashamed of the way they took their pleasures.

His hands were holding something behind his back; he stood hovering at the doorway, almost too shy to come into the room. Head bowed and knock-kneed, a naughty schoolboy lingering at the Headmaster’s door awaiting his punishment.

Josephine said nothing as she strutted slowly up and down the room. Her shiny black stilettos hit the floorboards with deafening thuds, leaving small heel dents in the wood. Finally she stopped in the centre of the floor, legs wide, facing him, hands behind her back. She stared him out, with the disdainful look of a sergeant major deciding on his discipline. She noticed the desired effect building between his legs, it hadn’t taken long. His cock swelled in anticipation of his punishment, building to a very large hard-on.

Click, Click. she didn’t hear it.

Time to get out Miss Dominatrix.

She lifted her little black dress up over her head in one deft movement and threw it over the back of the sofa. She heard him take a breath. She knew she was a sight, trussed up in black whale-bone corset of silk and lace, stockings, and suspenders. The ridiculously high stilettos gave her legs and buttocks a long, lean look. This was too easy; he was about to explode already; he actually had a beautiful cock with a good expansion ratio; what a waste.

Hands on hips, she demanded, “well, where is it?”

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He pulled ‘the toy’ out from behind his back. It was a huge vein-bulging black strap-on dildo; its bulbous tip waved defiantly from side to side as he held it out to her... ouch, fuck, that thing is massive! She had to concentrate hard not to flinch; glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of it. She was sure he was smiling beneath the mask, although it was difficult to tell. He held a tub of good old-fashioned lubricant in his other hand... e’ ll bloody need it, she thought.

“Right, give me,” reaching out she snatched the dildo and tub from him.

The dildo was dirty, sticky, covered in light fluff, obviously not cleaned since its last usage... ‘ow bloody disgusting!

“Bend over the piano, now!” she shouted sternly. Mute, he obeyed.

Smiling beneath his mask, he approved of her choice of venue. Taking tentative schoolboy steps, he slowly walked to the piano, bent forward over the keys and reached his arms out over the lid to grasp the sides. He spread his legs apart and arched his bottom up, begging... he’s done this before, she thought.

He waited patiently for her to prepare. She took her time strapping on the dildo over her suspenders. With a cowboy swagger, she walked over to the window, grabbed the expensive silk curtain, and used it to wipe the dildo clean; he winced.

“Housekeeping, dear boy, housekeeping…tut tut...” she smiled.

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That’s the last time he’ll forget to clean the bloody thing.

She swaggered back to the piano and stood a few feet away from him. His beady black eyes stared out through small eyelets, watching her hawk-like in the mirror.

Watching as she made a show of expertly greasing the dildo with the glistening lubricant. With a flamboyant final flick of her wrist, she was ready.

Holding her proud cock in one hand, she manoeuvred up behind him and punched him hard in the back so that he fell forward. Piano keys tinkled discord as he fell. She bent over his back to whisper insults into his ear.

Chanting, bragging how big she was, how she was going to hurt him, all the while slapping his buttocks and teasing the rim of his anus with her newly acquired appendage.

Kicking at his ankles, she spread his legs further apart.

Click, Click. she didn’t hear it.

It was time. Slowly, luxuriously, she stroked her proud cock. He could hear the sticky slurp sound of the lubricant. Shit, he was scared, but he loved it.

How hard would she ram into him, how long would she make him wait, tease him? He could see the cock waving at him in the mirror. She was good at playing with it, like it belonged to her. He was hard with excitement; she had not even entered him yet. Suddenly, as if reading his mind, she punched hard between his shoulder blades, forcing his head to smash down on the piano lid, his torso and arms spread flat out as if on a cross. His hands gripped the sides for dear life.

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Click, Click.

Grabbing the silver buckle on top of his mask, she yanked back his head, so that he could still watch himself in the mirror. She locked eyes with his.

“You want this, little boy?” she snarled, nudging the dildo between his legs.

Lining up his hips, she dragged in a noisy breath, “well, you’re gonna get it.”

She slid into him, slow and long, as deep as he could take, all the while chanting abuse through gritted teeth into his ear.

Click, Click.

She had the rhythm and pressure just right. She had done this before, but that was what he was paying for, a professional. Boy, she was good. The licentious words that were coming out of her mouth were perfect, she knew her stuff.

Click, Click. he wondered how she couldn’t hear it.

She bore down on him over and over again. The bittersweet pain intensified, he had trouble keeping upright; his legs began to shake. When they finally buckled he fell against the piano’s keys; their clanking cacophony followed her rhythm with a tuneless beat. The sweat in his hands made it difficult to keep his grip, the heat in his mask burned his face, but it all added to the delicious pain he sought. He wanted to shout at her, “harder bitch, harder,” but he was not allowed to speak.

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He closed his eyes; he was back in the Head’s study; he could hear his words and smell his putrid old-man sweat.

Click, Click.

Hearing the gentle camera click did it for him. It reminded him that he could watch this all over again after she had gone. The thought of this pleasure sent him over the blissful edge. He cried out like a pig as he splattered onto the ivory keyboard.

He collapsed, exhausted and sweating, a final discord of notes tinkled as he slid down to the floor. She pulled out of him as he fell.

Click, Click. ...what is that noise? She wondered.

Time to go, leave him to his fantasy. Unstrapping ‘the toy’, she threw it to the floor, grabbed her dress off the sofa, and pulled it smartly over her head, careful not to mess her makeup. She picked up her purse and walked to the front door.

Click, Click.

“I’ll see myself out, shall I?” she said sarcastically, without looking back.

Payment was always in advance by credit card to the agency, so she didn’t have to hang around for the money.

Much nicer to leave him alone with his ‘moment’. He had some tidying up to do, as she had noticed blood on the dildo. He ought to be more careful; maybe a smaller one next time.

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Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was 9:20 pm, not bad for a night’s work. In and out, nice and quick, just the way she liked it. Time to get home and have a shower, get back to good old Josie.

Mom, she had some leftover pizza in the fridge…with a nice glass of red and a chunk of chocolate.

Click, Click.

She slammed the door noisily behind her. “BITCH!” He shouted after her.

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Chapter Thirteen Tara rummaged frantically through her ridiculously large handbag. It was a Tardis; she could house a small pygmy family in it. How did she ever survive with a smaller one? Although ‘small’ was back in fashion, she refused to obey the rules and steadfastly hung on to the shoulder crunching colossus. It held the workings of her life, if she ever got mugged, her world would come to a standstill, and her chiropractor would be out of business. The cell phone shrilled out its annoying ringtone; she vowed for the umpteenth time to change it; the ‘laughing frog’ had had its day. Where the hell was it? She put her ear to her bag and listened; she could hear the bloody thing; seeing it would be good.

Finally, after emptying the workings of her life onto the floor, she found it in her jacket pocket. Damn phones, her next upgrade would be an enormous eighties in-your-face piece of kit; to hell with keeping them small and light.

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“Tara Warr,” she said, out of breath, hoping to catch the caller before it went to message service.

“Tara, me darlin’, it’s Seb, how the hell are ya?”

It was four days since the photo shoot with Franco. Four days of hell; she couldn’t get the bloody Italian out of her mind. What kind of planet was he on, how dare he be so cold after she’d saved his balls on the shoot, the little shit. He could at least have tried to contact her via the agency or something, probably off in some hotel room with the rest of his teammates, spit-roasting some bimbo half her age... and dress size.

It didn’t help that she started to see him everywhere, in the papers, on the news, in chat shows, at red carpet events. He was also working on a children’s charity with a member of the royal family. She couldn’t understand why he was so high profile; he only kicked a ball for heaven’s sake! What was it with football that it had become a religion, players worshipped like gods? Surely the guys that defended their country or doctors that saved lives were the real heroes? The public were easily led sheep, and she was fast becoming one.

She found herself listening in to men’s footy conversations, reading the back pages of newspapers, waiting until the end of a TV new reports for the sports roundup; he was nearly always featured.

There was an unhealthy amount of interest in the day-today trivia of his life: what he wore, what he ate, what he said, where he went, with whom and why. Who he was dating, how long would it last, what his ex’s thought (themselves milking the giddy heights of mini-stardom for simply having shared his bed for nanoseconds). What

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was he like in the sack, did he snore, take drugs, have a big dick? Who was his agent spotted shaking hands with in a clandestine hotel foyer? Was he on the move, up another rung of the football ladder: AC Milan, Barcelona, Juventus? Had he put on weight, was he losing his hair, how did he like his eggs? My God, the world would fall apart if he farted. It was pathetic how people lived their lives through B celebrities, and now she was falling into that category, obsessively soaking up every snippet of info about him – a mild form of stalking, how sad was she?

While waiting at the dentist, she idly flicked through the pictures of a well-thumbed celebrity gossip magazine, and there he was again, with some bone-crunchinglyskinny brunette (predictably, a model, just about his intellect) on one of his numerous beach holidays – how much holiday time did footy boys get exactly, they were forever on holiday; falling out of nightclubs, playing golf, sunning on beaches. These pictures were a collection of grainy amateur shots, seemingly taken without his knowledge - although the brunette looked suspiciously posed in every shot. The beautiful couple were snapped walking along the beach, frolicking in the sea, rubbing oil into each other (her skeletal back, so not a good look), lounging on a sun bed (what a great body he had... she remembered how good it felt), sitting together at a restaurant table, heads together in deep discussion over the remains of lunch, a boring lunch, bottles of water, fruit and salad.... no alcohol, steak and chips!

Urrgh… his arrogant, handsome face was everywhere, he was sex on legs, probably had a bird in every port, damn him! She wanted to see him again, so that she could snub 107

him. Wanted him to phone, so that she could ignore his call, to adjust the ‘cold-shoulder’ balance in her favour.

“Hi, angel, I’m fine; how are you?” she answered as gaily as she could muster, not being a morning person, it was a little early for her to cope with polite conversation. She was queuing in her local coffee shop on her way into the office, waiting for her extra-large skinny latte and muesli biscuit - breakfast. From the hide-and-seek game with her cell phone, her bag’s contents were scattered over the floor. A tube of cold sore cream and a bright pink tampon, made a run for it, rolling between the feet of the city gent queuing beside her. Typically English, he pretended not to notice, staring diligently overhead at the menu board. She muttered an apology and stretched down between his legs to retrieve the fugitives.

Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder she knelt to the floor and collected up the rest of her ‘life’ actually, she could probably dump the screwdriver, stapler, two pin plug adapter and eggcup; god knows why she had lugged them around for months? The corkscrew, headache tablets, baby wipes and lipsticks (who needed five lipsticks?) could stay, also the out of date condoms (ever in hope), although in her experience, being prepared was the kiss of death to any action.

She ignored the tutting from the impatient queue behind her and the smirk from the cute tourist as he handed her another escapee, a battered panty liner. It was too early in the morning to care, besides, she had on her mandatory sun glasses that hid a multitude of sins, including the ‘overslept, no time for makeup yet’ look, the ‘am a slut, got trashed, still wearing last night’s makeup’ look or the

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‘sleep induced eye-bags’ that as she got older, seemed to take longer and longer to drain away in the mornings.

“Great, listen, I emailed the pictures to your bosses in New York, they loved the shoot, they will be calling you today. Apparently the client wants more. They want to make a larger campaign of it. They also want to know who the mystery girl is. They love the idea of not seeing her face. You should see the feckin’ pictures, baby; they are fantastic, even if I say so meself. One of my better days, and there I was thinking business was drying up.

I’ll be flavour of the month for another year at this rate. I owe you one, me little darlin’.”

He sounded on a high; she was so happy for him. He was one of the best in the business, but was humble and insecure about his talent, which was part of his charm. It was lovely to hear him so inspired. She couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He babbled on.

Her coffee and bagged biscuit arrived. She chucked the biscuit into her bag, praying it would survive the journey to the office and mouthed a thank you to the harassed girl behind the counter. Keeping the phone against her ear with one shoulder, she hooked the heavy bag over the other. Grabbed a straw, tore off the paper cover with her teeth, and popped it into the awkward little hole in the lid of the piping-hot coffee. Squeezing past an impatient city boy bellowing out his order, it occurred to her that life was just one big rushed balancing act. She zigzagged her way through the rest of the queue to the door.

“Seb, wait a minute, what do they want? This job is complete. The New York boys have another campaign 109

backed up to follow it; different story line, different sports star, different city.”

Outside the noise of the early morning Piccadilly Circus traffic hit her. She struggled to hear his answer.

“They want more shots; the campaign has been changed; they are waiting for final approval from the client; if agreed, they will increase the level to involve TV and film commercials as well as print. They want to make a whole big thing of it. Jeez, the agency boys are wetting themselves. Talk to them darlin’, they’ll tell you… were you not in the office yesterday?”

“I had the day off… but what about Mr. Football, has he agreed anything? He’s a bit private; maybe he doesn’t want to do any more,” she hoped.

“I don’t think that’s a problem. They spoke to his agent first, tracked him down in Italy or somewhere. Oh, I don’t know, Tara, speak to your office... look… I’ve got to go. Well done, you made magic that day. Let’s hope we can re-create it. Speak to you later, darlin’.”

With that he was gone.

“Seb, Seb…” no answer, “fuck!”

A hot rush of panic ran through her. What did he mean, we re-create it? She had done her bit. She had put her job on the line enough already; she shouldn’t have stepped in and been in the shot without the proper say-so. Any changes to the script needed to be sanctioned by her bosses, who were in turn nervously under the cosh of their bosses in New York. The credit crunch had made everyone jittery, accounts could not afford to be lost,

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every minute detail had been painstakingly agreed over months of preparation. She assumed that no notice would have been taken of the back of a head in the shot, that all the focus would be on the star… whatever, no way was she working with that arrogant pig again.

Deep in thought, she power-walked the last few blocks to her office. She had journeyed on the bus that morning, leaving the car behind. All of the office car park spaces were booked out for clients in for a presentation. She was low in the pecking order; therefore, had been chucked off the rota for the day. It was too expensive to park elsewhere in London.

She wore flat shoes (flatties) for walking and carried her high heeled shoes in her bag. She sucked thirstily on the straw, awaiting the much-needed caffeine hit. She always used a straw; it kept her lipstick intact and prevented teeth staining.

As she walked, she thought through how to handle her boss, how to get out of working with ‘him’ again. She would say that she’d love to continue work on the job, but sadly was off on holiday, the photographer was more than capable of handling it, she could prep everything with him before she left and put another producer on to oversee it. She would stand her ground, say NO.... urrgh, she knew she was pathetic at standing up for herself; anyone else yes, herself, no.

She needed a holiday; now was a good time to take it, just before the summer rush. Who could she go with, the girls? Helen was always around and Josie seemed to have no trouble taking time-out when she wanted. She played 111

with holiday ideas until she got to the prestigious offices of ‘Harvinger Larvsen Advertising’.

Waving a cheerful hello to the gossiping receptionists, Mrs. B and Tracey, she scurried through reception and took the lift to the fifth floor, changing into her heels on the way up. Grateful to be alone in the lift, as typically her big toe had poked through an unsightly hole in her tights, again... SO not a good look!

A package was waiting for her as she got to her desk. She said the usual good mornings to her colleagues as she walked through the light, cheery office and slumped into her comfy swivel chair with a sigh; thank God for airconditioning, she was flushed hot from the journey.

Delving into her bag, she saved the biscuit from beneath the flatties, took a ravenous bite, and flicked on her computer. Slurping on the dregs of her coffee, she waited for it to come to life.

As always, she scrolled through her emails first. More slurping of coffee. Nothing of interest, a few jokes from friends and spam mail offering a larger manhood, longer erection pills, and someone called ‘hotpusibabe’ wanting to be her friend from Thailand, she deleted them. Didn’t they know she was a bird when they did these blanket mailings? What a waste of time; she didn’t have a manhood and the last thing she needed was a hotpusi, thanks.

Next to deal with were her telephone messages. The little red light on her desk phone flashed furiously, demanding attention. She picked up the handset and punched in her voicemail code, while tearing open the package.

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A collection of glossy ten-by-fifteen prints fell onto her desk, spreading fanlike across her papers. Their vibrancy hit her with a force that took her breath. Franco’s handsome face, cheeky, smiling, laughing. He was cuddling a blonde; you could only see the back of her head. She didn’t recognize it as her own at first; well, who knew their own back view?

“Shit!”

She went through them, closely inspecting each one.

He looked sensational. His eyes teased and laughed adoringly at the girl. The colours were great, the clothing showing well, the logo nice and clear. The look was sexy, healthy, relaxed and fun. He would probably go to serious babe status after this. Bet his agent was happy, their client would certainly be.

Seb had caught him at his best. What a great photographer he was. He even made her look as if she must be stunning, if only she would turn around. It was compelling viewing. She could see what fun they could have with this campaign. Mr Beautiful and the mystery blonde, a great idea, in fact, it was Franco’s idea if she remembered rightly.

The annoying voice of the woman on her voicemail messages had been repeating her instructions, “…to delete press 5, to save press 3…”

Oh shit… she had not been listening. She pressed 1 to replay the message. It was from one of her bosses, Pete Wells, they needed to talk, he had sent her copy proofs, call him.

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She pressed 5 and deleted, listened through the other messages. Josie and Hel were reminding her of Friday lunch; they were keen. She made a mental note to call them back; Friday was free, if she hadn’t managed to go on holiday by then.

The next message was one of ‘those’ calls again. She had been getting disturbing phone calls, one every few weeks or so for about a year. There would be heavy breathing or silence for a few seconds and then the phone would be put down, always from a withheld number. She kept thinking whoever it was would get bored and leave her alone eventually. She had felt silly reporting it, as no specific threat had been made. She wasn’t one to make a fuss but had started to wonder if the calls were connected to her feelings of being followed recently; it was probably nothing, all in her mind.

“Urrgh, get a life, asshole,” she muttered as she deleted and moved on to the next message.

She couldn’t keep her eyes from looking back at the photos scattered across her desk. She didn’t feel brave enough yet to call her boss back. She knew how persuasive he could be, and he was right; it made sense to use the same formula for the rest of the campaign. But she had committed a mortal sin in not getting agreement for a script change. So much bloody red tape, she hadn’t had time, what with the six hour UK-USA time difference and her UK bosses being so ‘sitting on the fence’ anal; none ever made a spur of the moment decision, too busy keeping their jobs safe. The shoot would have had to be postponed whilst they got agreement, shifting the time frame and costing money, she would have been in more trouble.

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Should she come clean and tell him? Shit, in this nervous climate they used the smallest excuse to get rid of you, some of her sexist colleagues would love to hang her out to dry, she wasn’t sure she could trust her boss to defend her. Maybe stepping out of the campaign now she could get away with it. They could go back to the original girl, give her a wig, now that footy boy had grasped the idea on what to do, no one would be the wiser.

Besides, she didn’t want to have to work with the footy boy again, it would be embarrassing. He had been so bloody rude. He must think her a complete slut... he didn’t know she hadn’t done it for a year!

She blushed and cringed with the memory of the ‘Gents’ episode, grinding into him like some wanton bloody hussy… and then him asking her name in that pompous tone.

Well, why should he know her name? They had only just met, stuck tongues down each other’s throats, exchanged juices, and spent a few hours wrapped around each other... oh, shit! shit! shit! how bloody humiliating!!!

She shook her head; there’s no way she could see him again, let alone work with him. He was probably laughing with his chauffer as he drove away, she wanted to die. She shoved the pictures back into their envelope and buried them under the ‘to do’ pile.

The phone rang. It was the boss.

“Tara, good to speak to you; did you get my message and the photos?” Pete Wells purred into the phone, happy as a Cheshire cat, “we loved the stuff, want to do more, need 115

your genius talent of course, Seb told us it was all your doing.” ... thank you Seb… very much... bloody hell…

“Have you got a min; do you want to meet up, go through the strategy?”

“I’m so glad you like the pictures Pete, they are great,” she interrupted, “but Seb is being too kind; it was he and Franco, I just stood around keeping an eye on things. It ran itself, to be honest; they work together really well,” she enthused, “and I’m off on holiday.”

He ignored her.

“We’ve got the whole team here working on it. The ideas are endless… mystery girl, Franco like no one has ever seen him before. Both look so natural, believable, not like a normal prissy photo shoot. A real moment between two people enjoying each other… feel-good-factor stuff; audiences will love it. We’re looking at TV, radio, cinema, poster ads…all over the shop. Client really is eating it up.”

“What does Franco think of all this? He’s a pretty private guy normally, keeps a low profile, it may be too much for him.”

“Oh he’s cool; his agent thinks this would be a good clean way of increasing his profile. The fact that not many people know much about him, and that he is considered a goody-goody, all adds to the interest there will be in the campaign. With so much official coverage, the paparazzi boys may leave off him a bit. Stalk someone else for a change. Where did you find the girl,

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by the way? Who is she? Get her signed up under contract.”

She hadn’t thought about that. “Seb will know, I think he booked her for us,” she bluffed, “but guess we can use anyone, right? You can’t see her face.”

“Nah, keep the same girl, it has been approved by New York and the client, she has the right feel, I thi...”

Tara, flustered, interrupted him, “Pete, look, I’m going on hols any minute, Seb will handle it all for you, he’s a genius.”

“Tara, sweetheart,” his voice took on a harsh tone, “you can’t go on holiday now, it’s impossible. We cannot do it without you. You don’t understand, Franco will only do it if he has the same team, that includes you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked.

“What I said; he has put down certain conditions.”

“What conditions, exactly?” she was getting angry now.

“The same girl, photographer, producer, you, something about Mozart and champagne, and the best part is he has offered to let the still shots, they should only take a few days, be taken at his summer villa on the coast in southern Italy… he is going there for a break before next season starts; great, huh?”

He waited for her comment, she was silent, he continued.

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“These stills will be rolled out as poster and press ads for the first month; then TV and cinema commercials will roll out the next month; they will be short fifteenseconders, with him alone, looking for the girl he has lost, with flashes of the still shots of them and a strong music theme; we’re thinking of licensing the old soul number ‘Gotta See Her?’ The radio ads will roll out over the third month, using the music track, which will be synonymous with him and the brand by then. We will then release it as a single. The whole country could get involved looking for her,” he said excitedly.

Tara was silent.

“This is why we need to sign this girl up with a secrecy clause now, she is a major pin in the whole thing… we have to keep her a secret for as long as possible, extend the life of the campaign.”

It was getting out of control. What the hell was she going to do now? Everything had gone so fast. The shoot was only four days ago; they must have been working night and day to come this far – getting the client to agree on budgets and Franco and his agent to agree on the additional exposure.

She could see the beauty of the idea; she just did not want to be involved. She would talk to Seb; he was a darling; he would understand. Franco must be loving this, what a little shit.

“Tara, we’ve got to set this all up now; he only has a small window of time before the new season starts; he won’t do it when training begins or whatever these guys do, his agent was very clear. The lawyers are haggling over money now, but that won’t be a problem.”

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His other line was ringing; she could hear it faintly in the background. She was grateful for the interruption.

“Pete, why don’t you get that call, I’ll speak with Seb and call you back?”

“Yeah, yeah…you can’t go on holiday Tara…Call me back, bye,” he was gone.

She sat back in her chair, thinking, nervously slurping noisily on the empty coffee cup.

Dialling Seb’s number, an idea came to her. No, she would handle this direct. Disconnecting the call, she flicked through her address book; finding the agent’s number, she redialled.

“Ned Bromley’s office, may I help you?”

Tara scrunched up her face with foreboding; the receptionist had one of those superior, bored tones that filled you with knowledge they most certainly would not help you. The type that had made a monumentally bad career choice; they hated answering the phone and dealing with the public in equal measure. Their only enjoyment came from the Hitleresque power they bandied over callers and the game that no one got past them and the barbed wire fence they protected their bosses with.

“Mr. Bromley please,” replied Tara politely.

“And you are?” the last word of each sentence drawn out into an indifferent nasal whine, whoever you were, you’re not getting past me, sucker.

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“Tara Warr of Harvinger Larvsen, thank you.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“In that case, may I speak to Mr. Rossellini, thank you.”

There was a pause; did Tara hear a nasal snigger?

“FRANCO Rossellini, Madam?” dripping with… in your dreams!

“Yes…FRANCO Rossellini,” Tara tried to be patient.

“Out of the question.”

“Why?” “Mr. Rossellini doesn’t take calls,” she replied haughtily, another successful block… take that, sucker!

“Well, how does one communicate with FRANCO Rossellini?” Tara tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“Write in with a stamped addressed envelope, Madam.

Mr. Rossellini does not take calls.”

“Well, if you are able to do your job properly and take the message that he calls me pronto to prevent the withdrawal of his 4.5m Sporjakk fee, which I guess goes part way to paying your grossly overinflated wages, you may find that he is indeed capable of ‘taking’ a call.

Thank you,”... take that back, sucker.

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There was a pause; Tara envisaged the woman fuming, sucking indignant air through yellow-stained dentures, biting back a retort. She gave her phone number and got off the call before Frau Adolf could counterattack; she probably should not have said, “Auf wiedersehen” before putting the phone down. Her watch said 10:45 a.m.

She wondered if he would call and, if he did, what the hell was she going to say. She didn’t feel quite so brave now. Maybe the Nazi receptionist wouldn’t pass on the message.

She busied herself working through the easy stuff in her pending file. She confirmed Friday lunch with both Helen and Josie’s answer machines and avoided calls from Pete Wells and Seb, asking Mrs. B on reception to put their calls onto her voicemail; they could wait until she spoke with the footy boy or his agent.

Just as she was reminded by her grumbling tummy that it was time to get sushi for lunch, Mrs. B buzzed on the internal line.

“There is a Mr. Rossellini in reception asking for you, Miss Warr, shall I send him on up?”

“What? Ohmigod. No… wait… err… is it FRANCO Rossellini?” Tara stuttered.

“Hold on, err, Sir, excuse me,” Tara could hear Mrs. B talking to Franco... oh no, how embarrassing!

Mrs. B was in her late sixties; she only ever bought a paper for the obituaries, crosswords, and cricket pages; she would not recognize the star.

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“Is your name Franco? Yes, oh thank you… Miss Warr, he’s nodding, yes he is FRANCO Russelminey.”

“Rossellini, Mrs. B, Rossellini, he’s a footballer, Mrs. B… err… ohmigod… he is in reception… in front of you?” Tara stated the obvious.

“Yes, Ms. Warr, he is standing in front of me.’

Mrs. B didn’t give a monkey’s who the gentleman was; she just needed to know what to do with him. Two other phones lines were ringing; Tracey, the second receptionist, was on lunch; and someone had stolen her daily paper’s Sudoku page; she was not having a good day. Tara’s dilly dallying wasn’t helping... chop chop, girl, honestly, the young women of today!!

“Sorry… yes, please ask him to wait in the boardroom if it’s free, I will be right down. Thank you Mrs. B,” Tara tried to regain some measure of professionalism.

She put the phone down and held her head in her hands.

“Fuck! fuck! fuck!”

What the hell was he doing there? It was bad enough dealing with him on the phone, but face to face.

“Shit!”

She made a mental note to stop swearing so much.

She rushed to the loo with her makeup bag. A quick tartup. If she was going to be humiliated, she was going to look good doing it. Her stomach flipped with anticipation. She was surprised at how excited she felt.

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She could almost feel his energy in the building. She plastered her face with makeup, washed her teeth, babywiped her armpits, rearranged her hair a thousand times, and finally took the lift to the ground floor.

Notebook and pencil in hand, she strutted as efficientlooking as possible across reception. Not fooling anyone, least of all Mrs. B, who was on a call, pointing her at the door of Boardroom 1. With a flourish she opened it.

He was perched on the edge of the large boardroom table, cool as a cucumber, reading a magazine. He looked very relaxed, with the understated chic that only French and Italian men could pull off. He wore a midnight blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a white T shirt peaking through at the open neck. Scruffy designer jeans, handmade brown lace-up shoes, and matching belt. She took a quick intake of breath at the sight of him, but managed to turn it into a cough, he was bloody gorgeous.

He looked up at her, his face serious.

“You called, I was passing, what do you want?” he asked patiently, looking down at his watch with a raised eyebrow. He had been waiting twenty minutes.

How dare he be so pompous? I didn’t invite him, Tara fumed. Her heart pumped so loudly she was sure it could be heard.

“Sorry, I was in a meeting. It was very nice of you to pop in, but you shouldn’t have; I have another meeting now and can’t talk; we could talk on the phone later.”

The words were out before she could retract them… coward, why did she say that? He stared at her as if he 123

was trying to work something out. He had given her the same look at the photo shoot when she had dragged him into the ‘Gents,” he was not impressed.

“It’s nothing really,” she tried to make amends, “just about the Sporjakk shoot; it can wait.”

Why did he look so damned gorgeous? She couldn’t concentrate. Her chest was pumping so loud, she was sure he could hear it. She wanted to kiss him again but he was being so damned cold, she wished he would just jump on her. He continued to stare; she flushed with colour, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Could he tell she was lying?

She pretended to look anxiously at her watch, as if holding up the other meeting, turned to the door, and held it open for him to leave. Obediently, he jumped up off the table and went to the door. Stopping just in front of her, he leaned in close and said, “my driver will pick you up at 6 pm; we will talk then, if you haven’t got another meeting?” that raised eyebrow again.

He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body.

She stepped back. She could smell soap; he must have just got out of the shower. A picture of him wet and naked, towelling off, flashed into her mind, shit… she wanted to lean in and kiss him, what the hell was wrong with her; she was like a bitch in heat.

“Yeah, y...yeah, that would b...be f...fine…,” she stammered, anything to get him out of there; her hormones were going bananas.

“6 pm, great,” he smiled.

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She offered her hand for him to shake goodbye, feeling immediately stupid. He couldn’t help let out a grin; he had been offered more than that a few days ago. He put up the pretence and shook it graciously. She thought bowing his head was a bit over the top, but nevertheless was grateful for his politeness and his speedy departure.

Mrs. B watched the pair from behind her reception desk; her sparkly eyes followed Franco over the rim of her specs as he strode leisurely through the reception area and out the front door. That Tara was a bit scatty... but nice buns on him! she giggled to herself. Her niece would be impressed with her modern lingo! Not bad for an oldie; she may be grey and crumpled on the outside, but she sure was bright as a button on the inside. She cheekily gave her own ‘buns’ a wiggle in her chair; they also caused bit of a stir in their day.

The lift creaked its way up to the fifth floor. What the hell had she done? That was pathetic; she should have talked it out with him there and then. Now she had to prolong the agony... fuck, what a bloody coward.

The afternoon dragged on. She still hadn’t eaten; she couldn’t, she felt sick. Her stomach flipped between dread and longing to see him. He obviously thought she was a complete fool; he had been laughing at her; that bowing like a Chinese person was over the top.

Pete and Seb had called four or five times and were being put through to Tara’s voicemail by the increasingly hacked off Mrs. B, who was on the receiving end of their frustration. Tara would buy her flowers on the way into work tomorrow as a thank you.

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Not being able to concentrate on any constructive work for the rest of the day, she set about filing for England, the job she hated most in the world, the job that she would put off for months, and save for when brain numb with a hangover, where no constructive thinking was involved. The piles of filing were squirreled away by 5:45 p.m., leaving satisfying space on her desk, at least she felt good about that.

Where men were concerned, she had a four tiered policy, not dating married men, not dating anyone more than ten years older or younger than her, not dating anyone smaller than her, and not dating anyone she worked with.

Mixing business with pleasure was a sure-fire way to disaster, and this situation proved exactly why. It messed with your psyche; you turned from a sensible human being into marshmallow pathetic. She pondered adding a new policy: not drinking alcohol at lunch with the girls…yeah, yeah, yeah… and how long would that last?!

They would go on strike.

Visiting the loo for the second tart-up of the day ate up the final fifteen minutes of waiting before Franco’s driver arrived. The ladder in her tights from her big toe had crept up her leg. She stripped them off and abandoned them in the loo bin, wishing she hadn’t been too lazy to shave her legs that morning. She also wished she had put something a little more sexy on than a boring black office shirtdress. It was buttoned down the front and belted in at the waist like a sack of potatoes. But when staggering around her wardrobe in the dark that morning, how was she to know that she was going to be meeting up with the Italian stallion again?

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Waiting in reception, not able to stop fidgeting with nerves, she checked herself in a walled mirror.

“Hmmm, not too bad,” she muttered to herself.

She undid the bottom two buttons of the dress, to show a little leg, then a third to show a little more.

“That should help a little bit.”

She turned and looked back over her shoulder to check how big her ass looked in the black sack dress. Not great.

She should never have spent her childhood on the back of a horse. She blamed the hours of bashing up and down in a saddle for the large spread of mass that was her ass.

Mrs. B was watching, she nudged Tracey, her fellow receptionist.

“There, I told you, that football man is sending his driver for her,” she whispered.

“You sure, Mrs. B? That Franco Rossellini is a bit of a hottie, it would be like meeting Ian Botham for you… or that cricketer who won that ballroom dancing thing… you know, a sex god of the cricket world,” whispered Tracey, who at twenty-one often had to patiently correct her elder work colleague on what was ‘in’ and what was not. She assumed Mrs. B had got it muddled. Who was lucky enough to meet Franco the Bossellini? Certainly not Miss Warr; she was pretty but not supermodel material, and a little overweight; her ass looked huge in that dress. She wanted to suggest to Tara that she open one of her top buttons, show a bit of cleavage, take the 127

attention away from the ass; instead she just smiled sweetly at her.

“You look lovely, Miss Warr.”

Tara was grateful for her support, although knew it was not true.

Michael was prompt at 6 pm. He pulled up outside and tooted his horn. Tara took a deep breath and went out to meet him. The car had a soothing effect on her as it manoeuvred smoothly through the rush-hour streets.

Classical music, air-conditioning, the smell of leather all helped to calm her nerves. She felt safe, cocooned; not wanting the journey to end.

They drove without talking; Michael was aloof but polite; she didn’t push it. She normally chatted with everyone, but feared that he and Franco may have laughed about her antics at the shoot. She flushed red with the thought of it.

Peering through the tinted windows, she tried to get her bearings. She recognized that they were in the touristtrendy Kings Road, Chelsea. They turned off into a small side street that, in all her years of living in London, she hadn’t noticed before. That was the beauty of this city, no matter how well you thought you knew it, it would always surprise you with something new. They pulled up to imposing black electric gates above which towered a block of newly built flats. The gates opened and the car slid down into a dark underground car park.

Michael pulled up outside an entrance marked ‘Penthouse Lift’, jumped out and opened Tara’s passenger door. He keyed in a code to call the lift and

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informed her that Mr. Rossellini would be waiting for her on the top floor. He jumped back into the car and drove off, leaving her alone in the cold, dark concrete car park.

The lift doors opened, making her jump. She stepped in and pressed the Penthouse button. The lift was soft and welcoming, with thick cream carpet on the floor and two of the walls, the third wall was a mirror. Two seascape paintings and a mini-chandelier gave it a homely touch... add a mini-sofa and I could live in here!

A final check on her reflection, and she did up that third button, deciding it looked a bit tarty, too much leg showing, trying too hard. The lift pulled to a stop; the doors jerked open to a cream marbled hallway.

Franco was leaning on the wall opposite, waiting for her, all business-like; welcome, come this way, would you like a drink? She followed him through a large old oak door, into a vast bright living space. Taken aback, she stood for a moment in the doorway, taking in the high arched ceilings, marbled floors, and beautiful panoramic windows that stretched floor to ceiling the length of the apartment. The majestic city of London stretched out before her; it was beautiful.

He had obviously just moved in, the decorators had not finished yet. Two scruffy old sofas and matching armchair sat in the middle of the room, completely out of place but hugely comfortable. They hugged a magazinecovered coffee table. Large pictures wrapped in brown paper leaned in ordered piles against various walls, waiting to be hung. An enormous TV stood in one corner, a top-of-the-range, in-your-face hi-fi system in 129

the other. CDs (mainly classical, she noticed) littered the floor around its base.

The open plan kitchen was in the process of being fitted out, but the basics seemed connected up - fridge, microwave, coffee machine, kettle. Workmen’s tools were stacked neatly in a corner, there owners gone home for the day.

“Excuse the mess, I’m moving in; well, I’ve been here for a while, but I’m trying to make it mine, if you know what I mean; can’t seem to decide on anything yet.”

“It’s beautiful!” she gasped, walking around the huge space, “I love it; look at those windows; we are so high up here; what a view. You must take your time creating this space; it’s priceless, so much light.”

She had gotten carried away with the beauty of the flat and was chatting too much. She had to remind herself what she was doing there. Plopping down on the sofa, she shut up. He offered her a drink; having seen the bottle of red wine opened in the kitchen, she asked for a glass of red. Silently he poured two glasses and sat beside her, rather too close for comfort. He looked delicious... just for a change. How could someone be SO bloody beautiful all the time? It was grossly unfair.

“How long have you been here?” she started politely.

He was having none of it.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, leaning back on the sofa, surveying her, waiting patiently.

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She mimicked his body language and relaxed back into the sofa, realising what she was doing (mirroring body movement was a dead giveaway of fancying someone) she bolted back upright, pretending to smooth down her dress over her crossed legs. He had noted her legs. She had cute, downy, blonde hairs on her thighs.

She gulped some of the heady red wine and took a deep breath.

“Sporjakk, the shoot; I hear you have agreed to do more but have stipulations. What are these?”

“As I’m sure you have been told. I’m interested in doing more, but only if the same team is involved.”

He watched her face, reading her like a hawk. He continued.

“To fit in with my schedule, the shoot will have to coincide with my holiday, which will mean filming at my home in Italy, within the next ten days, before pre-season training starts. There are other financial clauses in the agreement to be discussed, but I assume you’re not interested in those.”

He was very sure of himself, confident, and articulate.

She was surprised for a footballer. It occurred to her that he could have got his agent to meet with her.

“By the same team, you mean Seb, the photographer, and his crew?”

“Yes, and yourself; you produced it.”

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“But I will not be able to work on this project, Mr. Rossellini, as I will be on holiday. Sorry. Seb will handle it, he’s great, as you know.”

“You are in the shot; you are the model,” he said firmly.

“But it’s only the back of my head; anyone can do that.

Look, to be honest, if my bosses find out it is me, they may not be too pleased. I may lose my job for having the audacity to change the script and put myself up as a model without their agreement. You can find another model with a wig or use the original girl, whatever, I really cannot work on this, and I’m here to ask you to, please, let your agreement pass on that point. I’m sure you understand,” she pleaded.

“No you, no show, Miss Warr! As you said before, I’m the star here; I can ask for what I want, and enjoy it, I think you said,” he grinned salaciously at her, obviously referring to their meeting in the Gents.

She was stunned. Here she was begging him to let her off the hook and the little arrogant dick couldn’t give a damn. He just saw her as a cheap fuck.

“What do you mean by that remark? I assure you, Mr. Rossellini, whatever happened in that studio was a oneoff. I could lose my job and you couldn’t give a toss, what kind of a selfish pig are you? I wouldn’t work with you again for all the tea in China; you are an arrogant little shit.”

She jumped up, purposefully showing more leg than necessary... take that, see what you won’t be getting, and marched out the front door.

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Slamming it shut behind her, she pushed the call button on the lift panel. Fuming with anger, she noticed she still had the glass of red in her hand, knocking it back in two large gulps; she put the empty glass on the floor.

The door reopened quietly; he followed her. Standing close behind her, he said in a soft tone, “I deserved that. I guess I was testing you. To be honest, I need you to be in the shoot, I couldn’t do it without you.”

Jaw set tight, she stared straight ahead at the lift doors, willing them to open. No answer... he tried some more.

“You saw the shots, they’re great, I normally hate this camera stuff. They want a look I can’t give them on my own; I need to follow your lead. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your bosses; can’t we work something out? Please Ms. Warr, Tara…,” he pleaded, “they need never know, the photographer will keep quiet, we could have just a small crew and keep the whole thing private,” he grabbed her arm, trying to get her to listen. She shook it off vehemently.

“Go stuff yourself; find some other tart to play with. I have better things to do than baby-sit some drama queen who won’t sit for the camera. What the hell are you doing this shoot for anyway? You have enough money to last you a lifetime. It’s a power trip for you footy boys, more fame, more money, more women, faster car; grow up, you can’t take it with you,” she spat, praying for the trundling lift to move faster; she wanted out of there.

Blushing with the effects of red wine and the heat of her anger, she blew her fringe out of her eyes, cooling her hot face.

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He flinched. Taking a deep breath trying to remain calm, he spoke in a low voice to the back of her defiant head.

“For your information, I’m not earning from this job; my entire fee goes to a children’s charity. But, you’re quite right; I don’t need this hassle, they can stuff the job. I’ll call my agent now, he can tell them.”

Spinning on his heel, he started back to his front door.

“What coward gets someone else to do his dirty work, not big enough to tell them yourself, eh?,” Tara goaded, still wanting to hurt him, “typical bloody footballer, dickbrain-dead mummy’s boy, can’t wipe your own overrated blinged-up ass. £45 million, huh, you’re having a laugh, who moved the decimal point a few places… what bunch of plonkers agreed that fee?… all you do is kick a ball in the mud for God’s sake!”

She hadn’t expected the charity link; it made her heart lurch, but mid-argument she was too proud to back down.

She should shut up… now. Where was that bloody lift?

Thankfully a bell announced its arrival; the doors finally opened. Tara stepped inside and repeatedly pressed the ‘Ground’ button, in the vain hope that it would speed things up. She had said too much and wanted to get out of there fast.

Her knifed words hit home. Incensed, he turned to see her disappear into the lift. How dare she, the mouthy cow, that was it… Franco’s infamous cool, calm demeanour cracked.

The lift doors began to close, with the speed for which he was paid so handsomely, he jumped inside just as they

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sliced shut behind him. She yelped with shock as he landed in front of her, falling back against the mirrored wall of the suddenly very small space.

“What the...,” her words were cut.

He pushed her hard against the wall and thrust his angry vein-bursting face into hers. Memories of their first meeting stirred through her. His hand slid up around her neck to grab her jaw, forcing her to face him.

“You are a stupid bitch, you think you know it all, think you’re so clever,” he hissed spit on her face, “you want me to tell them, right, I will; we will both go to the agency guys now, you’re coming with me—capice?”

They were too close; his body on hers; her skin warm to his touch. Her shoulders and chest tensed, puffed out like a proud stallion; ‘just try it’ written all over her face, she was not scared of him. The airless lift was stifling; he couldn’t breathe. God, he wanted her.

He groaned and slammed his mouth onto her, pushing his tongue between her lips. She wouldn’t open up. Putting up a fight, she twisted her head from side to side to get away from him; her hands grabbed at forearms, pushing him off.

“Get off me, you arrogant little shit…go find yourself another tart. I made this mistake last time...”

Not listening, he moved his mouth to her neck, her Achilles’ heel, smothering it with kisses. His soft warm tongue traced saliva trails, tickling cold under his hot breath. Her senses ignored resolve; it didn’t take long.

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Her head lolled back; with a defeated low groan she remembered the photo shoot, the delicious feel, smell, taste of him. She wanted to let go.

Why did she always end up being a complete slut with him? Her anger flipped to lust as his tongue hit the gusset moistening zone on her neck… oh shit, here we go again… she was SO pathetic.

The lift, forgotten, jolted into action and started its descent. With one hand holding her against the wall (he needn’t have worried; she was not going anywhere), Franco spun around, reached out, and hit the emergency stop button; it grumbled to a standstill.

Turning back, confident he had her full attention, he released his grip, dropped his hands to his hips and calmly watched her, reading her flushed face. She stared defiantly back, brushed the hair from her face, and tried to get her breathing under control, willing the tell-tale panting to settle.

Grinning at her efforts to look composed, he raised a cheeky questioning eyebrow that said, “well, do you want it?”

Urrrgh, he was so bloody sexy… it was beyond her. What the hell. With a resigned sigh, she looked him in the eye and nodded.

That’s all he needed, his hands and mouth were everywhere. She joined in pulling at his shirt, groaning under her breath as she opened it to reveal his hard chest.

“What is this, unfinished business?” she asked between kisses.

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He was done with talking. Spreading his legs, he leaned forward and cornered her against the wall. His mouth ate her; his fingers slid her dress up her bare thigh. With a small groan her head rocked back; his magical hands, manoeuvred across her body, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Her senses followed his fingers softly trace the line of her hips to the curve of her ass. She gasped as his hand cupped her cheek and yanked her to him.

“Hey, maybe not best here,” she whispered, “we are in a public lift, for heaven’s sake; someone can catch us!” he ignored her.

“There’s a perfectly presentable bed in your flat, I am sure we could use that,” he ignored her.

His hand then followed the line of her g-string down between her legs.

“Or your sofa?… your kitchen table?… sideboard?… fridge, anything,” she was laughing at his urgency, he took no notice.

He cupped her pubic bone and roughly squeezed, pulling her into him - he owned her. Her body jumped with the sensation of his touch.

“Oh shit...” she gave up.

She was going over the edge; it had been so long since she had been touched there. Pleasure shot through her as he firmly rubbed the palm of his hand backward and forward against her clit. A horny tingling rush swept through her body, he was driving her crazy. She didn’t 137

care if the world and his wife arrived at that moment, she was his rag doll.

Yanking the dress to her waist, he bent down and sucked hard on a nipple, biting through material. She let out a small squeal, a mixture of pleasure and pain, lifted his face, kissed him, and whispered, “here, let me help you.”

Undoing the top buttons of her dress, she revealed a black lace bra. She slid the lace down beneath her breasts and eased the mounds up and out of the cups; they jutted skywards over the underwire with a ‘begging to be kissed’ look. Holding the back of his neck, she pushed his smiling face into the soft warm flesh. He groaned with pleasure as he rubbed his face between the mounds, kissing, licking, flicking his tongue over hard nipples.

She arched her back, catlike, loving the worship.

Bending to kiss the top of his head, she reached down to his crotch and slowly began to rub backwards and forwards over the hard ridge in his jeans. She giggled with excitement as she felt him grow; he was huge.... this was going to be inside her soon!

It was too much for him; he had intended to make her wait but couldn’t hold it, his fit-to-burst cock was straining like a jacketed mental patient.

“I’m going to come if you keep that up,” he breathed into her tits.

She increased the pressure, rubbing and squeezing, tickling his balls, pushing him to the edge.

Bending, her mouth close to his ear, in a low, barely audible voice she ordered, “take your woman… now.”

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She was something else… not needing to be told twice, he hungrily pushed her hand away, unzipped the fly, and eased the beautiful animal out. It thudded warm and hard against her belly, demanding attention. The sight of it caught her breath; her instinct was to kiss it. She started to reach down, Franco read her mind and pulled her up; selfishly, he had no time for that; he wanted inside her now. His jeans slid to his ankles.

He undid the final few buttons of her dress, opening it up, displaying her naked body. As he took in the sight, she steadied herself against the wall, lifted a stilettoed foot off the floor and wedged it against the control panel, opening herself up to him. She looked so fucking sexy, her blonde hair falling across her face, her legs spread, begging to be entered, her eager hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him into her... no going back now.

Lining up her hips, he pulled the g-string aside and rested his forehead against hers. Barely breathing, they both watched as he guided his fat cock between her legs and nudged it inside her.

Gently, he pulled her hips into him, pushing deeper, checking her face to see how far he could go; she was SO wet. He rocked her backwards and forwards, a little deeper each time. She held her breath, he felt so good, she could explode with pleasure.

He locked eyes with her as he pumped harder, enjoying the look in her face as he got deeper and deeper. Her head began to sway; her mouth fell open into a half smile that came from way down inside. She joined in his rhythm, squeezing her inner muscles as he withdrew, 139

pulling him back into her, he nearly burst with the teasing sensation… this was good.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the tableau of the two of them in the walled mirror. They were a sight.

Following his gaze, she naughtily lifted his shirt tail to see his sculptured ass in the mirror, his buttock muscles pumping slowly in and out. What a picture; she wondered how easy it would be to grab her cell phone and take a picture, but it was strewn on the floor with the rest of her bag’s contents.

The lift swayed with them, dancing, creaking in rhythm to their sex. Between laboured breaths, he whispered close into her ear, she did as he asked. She reached down and rubbed herself as he fucked her. Her head rocked back, she was so turned on she hit the spot almost immediately. Her legs gave way with giddiness; she held on tight to his shoulders, fearing she may fall.

This excited him even more; he pumped faster, harder, his groaning building. She watched in the mirror as his beautiful body slammed into her; he was physically perfect; it looked like a porno movie; she started to come, her knees buckling, head lolling, hitting the wall of the lift as she cried out.

“Tell me!” he shouted, “tell me… tell me you’re coming,” he needed to hear it.

She could not speak; her mouth open, her eyes rolled, she came in delicious mellow waves. On the crest of one of them, she managed to whisper that she was.

Franco pumped her hard and fast, building and building until it was too much to hold; crying out, he came too.

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Over and over his body jerked into her, until empty, until silent.

They fell together, holding tight, sweating, breathing hard, clinging onto each other until the final waves of pleasure washed over them.

Tara came around first and started to giggle nervously.

She had needed that so badly; her bones had been well and truly shaken. She felt light and wonderful. She wanted to do a little dance around the lift, punching the air… after one whole year, the end of the dry patch…yes!!!!

While he was still in a dozy vulnerable state, his head resting on her shoulder, getting his breath back, she couldn’t resist kissing the side of his face, light kisses over the corner of his eyes, mouth and cheeks, tasting his salty sweat, not wanting to let go. She had forgotten how wonderfully tender the afterglow of sex was. Eventually they pulled away from each other.

Suddenly feeling shy, she modestly gathered her dress around her; reality began to seep back, along with her inhibitions. He was quiet, what was he thinking? Did she always have to behave quite like a slut around him?

The lift abruptly jolted into action. Somebody had called it, it started to descend. They looked at each other in mock horror and giggled. With lightning speed and a lot of cussing, they scrambled to tidy up.

The lift stopped at the car park, basement level. The doors opened to a dismayed Michael. Tara’s hair was all over the shop, her makeup smeared, tell-tale perspiration 141

visible on her chest and neck. Franco also looked flustered and sweaty. His shirt buttoned up out of synch, he had obviously dressed in a hurry. The unmistakable smell of sex wafted out of the lift.

The two of them looked so funny, feigning calm, cool, innocence. Michael had to hold back a grin.

“Err.... sorry, Boss, didn’t know your were still busy. I’m here to pick you up for the restaurant; I was buzzing the flat but no answer. I’ll wait in the car, Boss.”

He turned smartly and marched off; his highly polished toecaps echoed an air of ‘on very important business’ throughout the car park. Typical army boy.

Franco stepped out of the lift and shouted after him, “Michael, you know what? I won’t be going out tonight, take the night off, see you in the morning. Cheers.”

Before Michael could answer, Franco jumped back into the lift and pushed the penthouse button. He had better plans; he and Tara were going to get to know each other better.

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Chapter Fourteen Michael chuckled to himself as he returned to the car, swiftly tucking the semi-automatic back into its holster, luckily Franco hadn’t noticed the gun, he had other things on his mind.

Franco was reliable, he never missed an appointment, so when Michael had been buzzing the flat with no answer, he started to get anxious, imagining trouble, he decided to take the lift and investigate. There were a few nutters around, obsessed fans, bunny-boiling ex’s, kidnappers, it came with the territory. He had been pumped up, ready to attack, when the lift doors opened and ...... bingo, the boss; all post coital with the blonde, not a hijacker in sight.

He chided himself for being over paranoid, for losing his cool; this was Chelsea for Christ’s sake, not Beirut! He had jumped into combat mode, ‘expect the unexpected and act fucking fast’. Certainly unexpected, he had nearly blown the boss’s head off!

He couldn’t shake off army training; it had become a part of him, instinctive. He had seen action in the Gulf, 143

Northern Ireland and Kosovo, and worked for Close Protection and Intelligence agencies in Iraq. He had retired three years ago, at the age of forty two, having witnessed his fair share of carnage. He had been a politician’s puppet for long enough and used up ten of his nine lives; it was time for a quieter life.

Whilst over-qualified for the job, looking after Franco was perfect for him. For once he was working for someone he both respected and admired; he had no qualms about doing whatever it took to protect him.

Every now and then he did miss his old job, the adrenaline rush of living life on the edge, but that was for the young.

As he turned the corner to the parked car; he stopped in his tracks.

“How the ...?”

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What the fuck…?”

He reached inside his jacket for the gun, listening for noise: runaway footsteps, a car leaving, voices, anything..... but nothing. With both arms extended supporting the gun, he spun three hundred and sixty degrees, scanning for movement.... again nothing. Why hadn’t he heard anything? Who would do this?

The word ‘BITCH’ had been etched in foot-high letters, across the hood of his beautiful Mercedes, his pride and joy. “Someone is taking the ‘effing piss....”

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Chapter Fifteen

Twenty-two years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England He could remember the first time he saw her; she was almost as striking as his beautiful mother. She was his big sister’s best friend; the two of them would visit him at school on special occasions - sports days, theatre productions, parent’s day - mainly so that his sister could flirt with the other pupils, one in particular, Seb Maloney.

His sister had a crush on Seb, he could tell from the humiliating way she draped over his every word, laughed too loudly at his jokes, wore tonnes of makeup and followed him like a lovesick puppy. Not only was she an embarrassment, but she was as bitchy cruel to him as only a big sister could be. He suffered her; she was his only route to Tara, the angel the Devil had sent to protect him.

From the moment they met he knew that Tara had feelings for him, that she understood her purpose was to love and protect him. On that first day, he had been 145

running down the corridor to meet his sister and her friend, they had arrived as his guests for the end of term school play and were waiting for him in the great hall reception.

In his eagerness to impress, he charged into the hallway and slipped on the highly polished parquet floor, sliding the full ten yards to the feet of the giggling girls, bowling over the maths professor in his wake. The professor had been precariously balancing two large trays of sandwiches due for the after-show Tea. With a mighty crash, metal trays, sandwiches, arms and legs, flew into the air. Luckily no one was hurt. His sister screamed with laughter at his clumsiness, attracting the attention of boys and parents filing into the hall.

“Oh David, you’re so stupid. T, meet my plonker brother, David,” Helen, hands on hips, peered down at his sprawled body, covered in entrails of egg mayonnaise, tinned salmon and soft cheese sandwiches.

“Now you know why I hardly ever see the blithering idiot, he is too pathetic for words… how did I ever end up with a bro like him?” he flushed crimson, her spitefulness heightening his embarrassment, he wanted to run and hide. He had never understood her malice towards him, and had long ago given up seeking her approval. In years gone by he had loved his big sister, and wished for nothing more than for them to be friends, but that had gradually turned to mutual loathing. He sometimes wondered if it was the attention his mother showered on him - her beautiful son.

Helen continued to laugh and throw insults, enjoying the attention they were getting from the growing audience of sniggering boys, all the while searching out for the

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adorable Seb. Tara bent down and stretched out her hand, offering to help him up. He stared up into her smiling face, a ray of sunshine shone in through the stained glass window above her head, giving her a magical radiance.

The golden light speckled in and out of her blonde tresses as they tumbled over him. He knew in that moment that she was an angel, his angel, a sign, a gift sent by the Devil.

“Don’t worry, she’s only joking. Hello David, I’m Tara; it’s good to meet you at last... you ok? How do you cope with such a horrid sister?” she teased as she pulled him to his feet.

She then turned to the furious muttering maths professor and hauled him up. Smiling sweetly, she brushed soggy bits of watercress from his lapel and helped him collect up the debris. His anger towards David melted as they chatted about the danger of polished wooden floors - they were buffed to impress on visiting days, making it tricky for parents as well as students. Someone may sue one day.

The professor rushed off, back to the kitchen, wondering how to break the news to the cook. David led the two girls into the hall in search of their seats. He sat in the row behind them; he spent the next two hours staring at his angel in the dark of the theatre. Apart from his mother, this was the first time anyone had been so kind to him. He loved her from that moment. The Devil had listened to his prayers.

The worship started, he followed the girls everywhere, often his head in a book, pretending to read, always hovering at a distance, too shy to talk but close enough to 147

hear their every word. Should Tara need anything, a drink, a chair, a door opening, he would be there, looking after her. Whenever Helen chastised him, Tara came to his rescue, making light of it and telling him to ignore her.

He remembered her every word, and alone at night in his dormitory, he would go over and over each line, each look she gave him. Believing everything she did or said was directed at him, a secret sign between them, she was also too shy to talk. She loved him and proved this by protecting him from Helen, and coming into his thoughts when he was in the Headmaster’s office. He got through the agony of the ‘private acts’ by imagining her spirit was with him, reaching out her hand, holding him steady.

He lived for the days when they could be together; school sport’s days, parent’s day, holiday sleepovers. He put up with his sister’s cruel taunts to be near her, to find out more about her. He became obsessed, collecting things that she touched; strands of hair from her brush, dropped sweet papers, notes to Helen, discarded chewing gum, pubic hair from bed linen, crumpled tissues and napkins.

When alone in the house after a sleepover, he would sneak into the spare room, strip naked and get into the bed. He would lie on his stomach, rub his cock against the mattress, and breathe in her smell on the linen. He would come in seconds.

He wanted to have images of her with him all the time, so he talked his mother into buying him a camera. He took fun photographs of her and his sister mucking around, posing, he also took secret photographs when she was not looking.

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Click, Click.

He spent all his pocket-money on film and developing.

His collection grew and grew; he used the images to pleasure himself over.

She kept him alive. As the Headmaster’s age mottled hands violated his body, and the pain of buggery seared through his small frame, her face would be there, smiling down on him, protecting him. He kept her close.

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Chapter Sixteen The television screen pulsated with colour and shapes, their rhythm building momentum. A male form eased in and out of a female, taking her from behind, her arms stretched out against the wall in front of her, both naked and glistening with sweat. Her head threw back as she cried out, arching her spine, bouncing her buttocks hard against his groin, greedily welcoming every thrust.

He watched with a mixture of despair and excitement, his cock hard, tears rolled down his face. She was his, how dare another touch her? She cut into him with every move, every sound, sliding her knife in and out, the bitch.

“Soon she will be mine alone,” he whispered, “soon she will beg.”

He had rented the flat above hers for a year. Within the first week of moving in, under the guise of a workman for the block’s management office, he had installed secret cameras and microphones into her flat. Nothing was sacred from him; in the bathroom, in the bedroom (where she was now), in the living room and kitchen. She had a small flat, so he had it covered in four cameras and four

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microphones. Each were wired seamlessly down through his floorboards and concealed in her ceiling light fittings.

His spy flat was unfurnished, cold and dark; it housed the bare essentials he needed to monitor his quarry. To the outside world it looked empty; curtains closed, no lights, no movement. London, a city full of transients, was easy to hide in, to become invisible. People got on with their own hectic 24/7 struggle for survival, turning a blind eye to the comings and goings around them; no one cared for their neighbour, nor knew their name. He could be invisible when he wanted, no one noticed him enter or leave the spy flat.

The floor plan layout mirrored her flat; he used only one room, the living room. Four sixty inch televisions sat on tables in a circle around a large leather swivel chair, his command post, lit only by the light of the flickering screens. He would sit for hours and watch her, follow her as she went from room to room, his bulky chair swivelling from one television to the next. The screens were so big she felt life-size; he could reach out and touch her. Soiled tissues and food cartons lay scattered at his feet, and spilled out of a cardboard box dustbin by the door.

He would watch her day and night; she was his obsession, his hobby, she was his. Sometimes when she was out he would visit her flat, touch her belongings, read her mail, play on her computer, lie in her bed and breathe in her smell. Other times he would drug her food or drink and visit her at night whilst she slept. She would be oblivious to his gentle touch as he made love to her.

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Soon it would be time to stop the secrecy, not long now, it was almost sad that it had to end. His eyes went back to the bedroom screen. He could tell that the male was about to climax; he was getting there.

He lifted the remote control and raised the volume so high that their heavy breathing filled the room. He then rubbed the remote against the mound in his lap, stroking backwards and forwards, following their rhythm. He would upset their little tête à tête, he picked up the telephone.

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Chapter Seventeen Franco’s arms crawled up around her waist and grabbed her jutting breasts, kneading them, forcing the sleepy soft nipples to ache hard. Her hands pushed up against the wall, taking the full force of the pumping body behind her. She felt the cool, slippery, sweat on her buttocks as he slapped into her, the crude words he whispered in her ear. She loved it when he spoke his mother tongue, too lost in the moment to speak English; there was something sexy about not knowing what he was saying, but understanding the urgency, the passion in his tone.

His breath came faster now; it smelled of sex and felt warm against her neck, his head lolled on her shoulder.

She rubbed the side of her head against his, her wet hair sticking to her cheek; she gave him encouragement, willing him on. He started to pant, his groans increased in volume. He was nearly there, climbing, reaching for the climax that every part of his body now craved, pumping faster, harder.

Reaching down between her legs, she stroked the base of his cock and tickled his hard balls, gently catching them as they smacked up against her. She pushed out her ass, 153

forcing him deeper inside and squeezed her inner muscles on the length of him, building the speed, not letting him slow up.

“Stop that or I will come,” he cursed into her wet back, “stop, stop…I can’t keep it… I can’t keep it…”

That was exactly what she wanted, to feel his explosion, to feel him out of control, she squeezed some more.

Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak—Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak The bloody annoying croaking frog ringtone rang out from her cell phone; she SO had to change it. Why the hell hadn’t she turned it off? She looked at her watch, 1.55 p.m. still on her lunch break. If it was her boss, tough; leave a message; she was in a meeting.

“Ignore it, baby; don’t stop,” she whispered.

Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak—Bleep Bleep—Croak Croak She needn’t have worried, Franco had not even noticed the ringing; he was in a world of his own, on the edge.

He had reached the point of no return; an earthquake couldn’t put him off now. He cried out as if in pain, over and over. She felt the hot rush of liquid fill her. His body jerked to a stop, mid-sway. He clung on to her as his heart calmed; they fell against the wall, panting, giggling, high on each other.

Bleep Bleep, Croak Croak…

The caller went onto voicemail.

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She turned awkwardly in his wet embrace to face him.

Wrapping her tired arms around his neck, bestowing gentle butterfly kisses over his sweat-soaked face, tasting the salt on his skin. Their loving just got better and better, he smiled, chuckling through her barrage of kisses, thanking God that they had met.

“Love you a bit, Mister Rossellini,” teased Tara, in between kisses.

“Love you a bit, back, Miss Warr,” Franco replied, taking her face in his hands and stroking the wet fringe from her eyes.

They stood staring at each other, oblivious to the camera in the centre of the room and to the tearful eyes watching.

He put his hands over his ears to block out the intimate whisperings of two people falling in love. An electronic voice from his telephone echoed across the room, telling him to leave a message after the tone, the subscriber he had called was not available.

“BITCH!” he hissed, spitting the tears that trickled to his lips.

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Chapter Eighteen 2:15 pm, Tara ran out of her flat door, down the wide communal staircase that circled the rickety old lift, to the main front door. Franco would leave a little later; they did not want to be seen together.

She lived in a thirties-style block of flats off the Brompton Court Road, a colourful, lively, arty area of London with a mix of struggling musicians, artists, backpackers, gays, and a glut of estate agents, it bordered on the wealthier areas of Chelsea and Kensington. If you had to live in a metropolis, it was a great location; managing to keep the small-village feel, with the convenience of the big city. Every amenity she needed was within a walk from her doorstep. Parking was the only problem, never enough spaces and jackal traffic wardens.

A large ornate mirror covered one wall of the block’s entrance; it was convenient for last minute dress checks before setting out through the front door. She stood in front of it, pulling her clothes together, smartening herself up for the office. She giggled; she loved leaving him in that state, dozing happily on the bed, completely

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knackered. She was invigorated after sex, but he would collapse in a heap, losing feeling in his legs. Was it a man thing, or all that training he did in the mornings?

She thanked God (or whoever was up there) for sex; what bloody amazing, clever pieces of kit he had invented for men and women to play with, and to think she had grown up wanting to be a nun – as a girl, she had loved their outfits, particularly the long blue dresses with the white veils. She could do the ‘doing good’ bit easily enough; it was the ‘being good’ bit where she failed.

She felt the urge to turn around and go back up the stairs, to snuggle and laze around with the dozing Franco, have seconds, but she would be late for work. She loved their ‘nooners’ but had to be careful, a few jealous types in the office may get suspicious and cause her problems if they found out she was shagging a work contact. She and Franco kept their relationship under the radar. Which was perfect, they preferred to be alone, snuggled up under the covers and Tara had a lot of catching up to do on the bonking front.

Satisfied with her appearance, she pulled the heavy wooden door open and skipped happily down the steps, into the afternoon sun, letting the traffic heat and noise engulf her. She stopped on the step to check her cell phone, wondering who had called… coitus-interruptus, but it was a private number, no message, can’t have been important.

Now, where had she left the car? She had only parked it an hour ago, how could she forget? ... sex affects brain cells; blondes are dizzy from all that fun. Hurtling off in the direction she normally found a coveted parking place; 157

she smiled with relief as she saw a familiar rusty fender peek out from the end of a row of cars. She had had her scruffy, dirty, old car for a decade, no one would ever bother stealing it, she kept it that way.

Picking up speed, she slow-jogged down the street, rummaging through her vast handbag for the keys, enjoying the breeze in her hair as it cooled her down.

As she neared the car, something felt wrong; the sunlight reflected off the hood in awkward shapes. She got closer and stared down in horror; someone had etched ‘BITCH’ in large childlike letters across the hood of her beloved car. Foot-long gashes radiated out around the word, like spidery rays of sunshine.

“Fuck, shit, bollocks...!”

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Chapter Nineteen

Sixteen years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England Conscience and guilt were lost, right and wrong, good and evil; the rules did not apply to him. He was not that nice little choir boy anymore, not the sweet little mummy’s boy, he had grown up, woken up to the power of evil; he could do whatever he wanted. After it was all over, Tara’s love would absolve him, lift him out of depravity, he would be forgiven by God, say a few Hail Mary’s, and live a normal life with his angel. The Devil had given him a way to get through the abuse years.

Pain had become so much a part of his life that he now started to enjoy giving it. The science lab had become his private domain of torture. After a session with the Headmaster, he would take out his resentment on the creatures he kept hidden away in the lab’s cellar, to which, thanks to his doting science professor, only he had the key.

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Watching the pained eyes of wretched creatures as he cut into them and dripped burning chemicals onto their sizzling flesh soothed his anger. He imagined that he would one day hear the same screeches of agony from his own tormentor. He took pictures of the animals as he worked, capturing their suffering, his collection empowered him.

Click, Click.

A few teachers began to suspect his sanity and started to pry. David soon dealt with them; he had learned to manipulate the Headmaster, asking for ‘little favours’ during their special moments. The interfering teachers would soon find themselves given the choice of ‘no job, no references’, or ‘turning a blind eye’. Gossip was rife in the staff room; the Head’s rent-boy was becoming too powerful.

Over the years he began to enjoy his sessions with the Head. The heady power he accumulated, coupled with his Tara fantasy turned the sessions into a pleasure. When he was in that study, bent over the desk, being sodomized, he felt close to Tara, she was there with him, smiling, holding out her hand, protecting him. She bathed him in a warm glow, a feeling of worth, of being loved, of supremacy. They shared a secret bond facilitated by the Headmaster.

The sessions were evolving; they were no longer rape but mutual satisfaction. David was maturing; his body strong, the size and brute force of his tormentor had become easier to bear. When he had had enough pummelling, he knew precisely which coquettish words to whisper, which perverted buttons to press to bring the pitiful old man to his knees with orgasm. He had to be careful; he

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knew that the Head would bore of him quickly if he suspected that David was a consenting partner, so he kept up the pretence of fear and pain. In truth he longed for it, longed for the time with Tara.

He had also started to have sex with the other students and a few of the braver teachers (Headmaster did not like to share), including his long-suffering science professor, his biggest fan, who had waited for years to taste David.

Illicit meetings in the school grounds, showers, teacher’s cars, dormitories, anywhere that provided privacy for a snatched moment of pleasure.

He had become the school whore and loved it; his beauty and hypnotic control gave him power over all who tasted him, he could have any of them, male or female.

The only one he wanted was Tara. Time was fast approaching for them to consummate their love. He needed to be with her as man and woman, she was a virgin, he would be her first and only love, they would marry, his mother would be so happy. He prayed to the Devil for guidance in how to orchestrate their union, how to start a new life.

He gave no heed to the fact that the Devil may not let him go.

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Chapter Twenty Tara crashed into the flat, kicked off her toe-scrunching shoes, dropped her keys onto the hall shelf, and dumped her briefcase on the floor... home sweet home! Flicking the lights on, she scanned and ignored the junk mail scattered on the floor... no bills for a change, phew!

Franco had an away game, so he was staying overnight at a hotel with the rest of the team. She had a night to herself.

“Shit, I’m tired,” she announced to the living room as she flung herself on the sofa and swung her tired legs up onto the soothing cushions.

“What a day,” she needed a glass of wine, a hot bath and some mind-numbing telly, to catch up on all the soaps.

Bliss…

SNAP… A short sharp snap came from the kitchen. She jumped up listening hard; not quiet believing it could finally be

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over. Was that psycho-mouse? She recognized the sound; she had nearly lost her fingers to it a few times, whilst setting those damn Henry VIII-like traps. They had been playing cat and mouse for weeks now; every time she came home from work she would find more droppings and more bait missing. It had become a personal challenge, a war.

He had managed to avoid all her traps. He would cheekily kick shut the traps and sneak off with the cheese, walk around the glue traps, munch through the poison pellets, and ignored the high-pitch ultra-sonics plugged all over the flat. He had munched through a whole bar of chocolate (dragged it behind the TV), a bag of fruit and nuts and a bumper pack of nachos. He ran at speed across the tops of curtains and paintings, with daredevil leaps and bounds (probably the sugar rush from the chocolate). He was psycho-mouse.

Her heart sunk; how sad, he was finally dead. She had come to respect her worthy opponent, she would miss him... god, I’m pathetic, it’s a mouse, get over it! She took tentative steps across the living room, dreading the scene she was about to see.

Tap, tap, tap… a noise emanated from the kitchen.

“Oh my God, he was still alive…fuck!”

Tap, tap, tap…

She imagined him dragging the trap by his neck around her kitchen floor, blood spurting everywhere, a terrible crime scene... get the luminol officer! She backed off and 163

waited anxiously on the edge of the sofa for the noise to stop, cringing at every ‘tap’ of his struggle.

She felt sick, where was a man when you needed one.

This was definitely an occasion for a male to be in situ, along with opening tight jam jars, emptying bins, and sussing out night-time prowler noises. God, she felt so cruel, she hadn’t thought about what she would do when the little thing was actually caught.

Silence.

He was dead. Peering into the kitchen, expecting a blood bath, she saw him. His pathetic tiny brown frame pinned to the trap. No blood, just a small stain on the wood beneath his head. He looked so small, not at all the gladiator she had come to imagine. He had bravely dragged the trap to the middle of the room; he had tried... bless him.

Now for the clean-up... urrgh! Well, she had to get on with it... come on girl. Jumping over him to get to the cupboard, she pulled out a bin liner, rubber gloves, and a BBQ prong. She took a deep breath and stretched out her arm as if dealing with a huge beast, the prong touched the trap, his tiny body wobbled... shit.... urrgh! She jumped, squealed, dropped the prong and retched... fuck, fuck, fuck ...... he’s only two inches long, what harm can he do?

Another deep breath, another check that he’d stopped breathing … he’s hardly about to do a Jesus and rise again!! She retrieved the prongs and gently lifted the trap, so as not to wake him, and plopped him and the prongs into the bin liner. She quickly tied a double knot so that he couldn’t escape.... duh.... he’s dead! She said a

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little prayer over the bag and blessed herself. Those nuns had a lot to answer for!

With psycho-mouse safely in the outside communal bins, she got back to her cosy evening.

The red light flickered cheerfully on her answer machine, letting her know that she had messages. Her heart sank; she had had a few more of those crank calls recently at her home as well as the office. She didn’t feel like any more drama tonight, so ignored it and busied herself running a hot soothing bubble bath.

Stepping out of her day-weary office clothes, she slipped her aching feet gratefully into soft slippers and pulled on her silky white dressing gown (one of her more expensive purchases, but hey a girl had to spoil herself sometimes; a little Hollywood number that made her feel like a million dollars).

The bath mellowed her out, the heat of the water seeped through her tired body. Sips from the large glass of red perched on the side of the bath soothed her, pushing all thoughts of psychomouse out of her mind. She could finally throw away all those traps - would the Oxfam shop want them? She had gone through a wonderful wardrobe purge recently, giving everything to the charity shop, it felt liberating clearing her cupboards and helping the charity to boot.

She lay, dreaming of Franco. It was going really fast, they seemed to get on well, although she was not sure how serious he was about her; they did not talk too much; they tended to spend their time ripping each other’s clothes off. She feared that it may be a phase for him, a 165

quick fuck. He was happy to keep it a secret, so he probably had a girlfriend somewhere; she hadn’t asked, too scared to hear the truth, although when did he have the time for someone else, they had seen a lot of each other over the past week.

They met at his flat at night, and her flat at lunchtime, he from morning training and she from the office. They would have an hour of great sex before she flew back to work and he was picked up by Michael. She hadn’t eaten lunch for ages, and dinner was wine and snacks from his pitifully empty fridge; bad for her, but she was pleased with the weight loss. She had begun to almost like her body. Sex was a great diet.

Her hand drifted down between her legs as she thought of their times together; shit, he was a good lover. She stretched out her body catlike under the water, her head leaning back against the rim of the bath. A warm horny sensation crept over her as her fingers gently stroked... hmmmm, wish he were here now.

Franco wasn’t, but David was.

Silently, he watched from the flat above, smiling, loving the privacy of the moment, stroking himself in rhythm with her. The TV was set to record; he would have hours of fun again with this later. She was such a naughty girl.

BUZZ BUZZ… BUZZ BUZZ... BUZZ BUZZ Crashing into the silence, the doorbell rung, ruining the magic of the moment. Tara jumped, slopping her red wine into the soapy water.

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“Who the fuck… damn it,” she licked the rim of her glass to catch the drips of wine.

She thought of ignoring it, hoping whoever it was would go away, maybe the wrong flat number…but the caller kept buzzing, impatiently. He or she wasn’t going away.

“Okay, okay,” she shouted out, pissed off at the disturbance.

Lifting out of the bath, she grabbed a towel and quickly dried off the worst of the water. Luckily she hadn’t got round to dipping her head under yet. She slipped into the dressing gown and went to the door. Cussing under her breath.

“Fuck, shit, bugger…” avoiding the redundant mouse traps. Picking up the entry phone hand set, she screamed a fishwife’s “WHO IS IT?” “T, its Ed, let me in.”

Ed the Head, her ex; what in hell’s name was he doing here; it had been nearly a year since she had last seen him. Her heart gave a jolt. When they had split they had agreed to remain friends - if a man and woman could actually ever be just friends, she suspected that she had allowed it in the hope that he would eventually come back... had he finally left ‘ her’? Too late she had a man now.

She pushed the entry button, to open the main front door.

Feeling giddy from the hot bath and getting up too quickly, she resolved to get rid of him and back to the bath. She had a new life now.

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Protectively holding the door only slightly ajar, she stood waiting for him to climb the communal stairs to her flat on the first floor. He climbed two at a time and was at the door in seconds, out of breath and a big cheeky smile on his face.

Her heart jolted again at the sight of him; she had forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous he was. She had been his bit-on-the-side for a while, until she had gotten fed up with sharing him with his non-understanding wife.

After the initial illicit excitement of dating someone she shouldn’t, she made the mistake of falling in love, and began to despise coming second on his priority list. She experienced the classic ails of the other woman. She hated the waiting for his call, the loneliness, the lack of spontaneity, the pointlessness of buying him loving gifts he could never use, the hiding from the world, the uneasy hooker-on-call feeling (with none of the financial benefits), the wondering if he still had sex with ‘her’.

Eventually she took the huge risk of making him choose and lost.

It served her right; she shouldn’t have gone with a married man anyway, let alone fallen in love with one; it was asking for trouble. If they don’t leave the wife straight away, they never will.

They finished their relationship in a grown-up manner, with her pretending she didn’t mind, it was cool, she understood. Bullshit - she cried for months, a year. She hadn’t been with anyone since; she had not met anyone to fill his shoes - until Franco.

Eventually, the wound of not being chosen had begun to heal; it was a slow process. He was not a bad person; he

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just didn’t value her enough to choose her over the wife.

Hey, she had broken her fair share of hearts in her time; shit happens. Finding two people where the love is equal is not an easy task. She tried to see the philosophical side, they had great times together, it was magical while their lives crossed; now learn and move on. Blah, blah, blah..... yeah, easier said than done, he was a bastard!

Actually, he may have done her a favour; did she really want to be with an unfaithful little shit? Him choosing her would have left a vacancy for the next dumb blonde that believed his words and filled her heart with hope.

She guessed he would always be an adorable rogue; it was best to keep him as a friend.

“What the hell do you want? You gave me a fright!”

She giggled at him, surprised at how nice it was to see him again, at how the cloud had lifted. For the first time in ages she didn’t feel the pain she associated with him.

She wondered if time had been the healer or she been released by having Franco in her life.

“I left a voice message, you dizzy mare; didn’t you get it?

I’m in town for the night needed a couch to crash on can’t believe you’re in; what a stroke of luck.”

He stood, hands on hips, catching his breath from the stairs, his cheeky eyes appreciating her state of undress.

She pulled the gown tightly around her waist, noticing his shoulder bag.

“Nope, Ed, I’m crashing, promised myself a quiet night in. I haven’t enough energy to be polite company to anyone, not even lovely old you. Isn’t there some floozy 169

somewhere you can stay with? Why do you only ever contact me when you need something, you little shit?” kicking herself for having ignored her answer machine; forewarned, she would have ignored the bloody doorbell.

She hated people turning up uninvited. It was bloody rude.

“Please, please, T!” he whimpered in a little boy voice, shocked at being told no.

“I won’t be any trouble; I’ll get a takeaway and we can reminisce over old times,” he grinned enthusiastically, “go on… live a little.”

“Nope, another time, I am shattered,” she shook her head, pulling the door to, “another time, now piss off!!…nicely!!” she smiled, blowing him a kiss.

Wow, she was turning away the guy that she had dreamed of being with for the past year…fan-bloodytastic. Seeing she wasn’t moving on it, he relented. He blocked the door closing with his foot.

“Ok, ok… just let me in to use your phone, mine needs charging, and I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, you think I’ll fall for that old chestnut, no phone, you have dozens of the buggers, at least three on the go, one for your ladies, one for work, and one that the missus gets to see…now scoot, I’ve got a bath getting cold,” she would never have talked this bluntly to him before; it was exhilarating... thank you Franco, even if we never see each other again, you have been the steppingstone off the pining for Ed.

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“Err..... got caught out on the multiphone usage; gave the mother-in-law the wrong number, caused a bit of a rumpus, so now only down to one. Rather relieved actually, too much hard work all that espionage. Honest T, am out of juice, look,” he held out his phone in cupped hands, Oliver Twist asking for more.

“Ok, ok, but just a quick call, hurry, I’m getting cold standing here.”

She pulled the door open for him to enter. As he brushed past, his aftershave sent a tingle of memory running through her. They had always been good together. He used to say it was because they screwed each other mentally as well as physically, whatever that meant.

Bloody hell, it’s like buses; she goes without a man for months and then a load come at once, turning up on her doorstep.

He knew his way around her flat, dumped his bag in her hallway and wandered into the living room, asking if she was ok, how was life treating her, small talk, just like old times. She half listened, anxious to get him on his way.

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine, now you know where the phone is…” “A beer would be nice, if you’ve got it…You got mice?” he asked, nervously looking down at the traps scattered across the floor.

He followed her as she walked into the kitchen. Thank God she had cleaned up psycho. He came up close behind her as she scanned the fridge for a beer.

“There’s one,” he pointed, “at the back.”

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He leaned in over her body, his chest warm against her back, to grab one of the elusive beer bottles hidden behind the out-of-date hummus and taramasalata tubs (lazy fodder for busy girls). She was grateful for the rush of cold air from the fridge. Maybe it was not a good idea to have let him in. She may be over him, but he was still fucking sexy, and he knew it.

He knew where the bottle opener lived and automatically reached to grab it... good memory, she noted. Closing the fridge, she spotted an old picture of the pair of them in a passionate embrace, beneath one of the many magnets that held all manner of trivia to her cluttered fridge door.

The photo was something she had pathetically held onto along with her dreams of them getting back together.

Nonchalantly leaning back against the fridge, she managed to hide it; she didn’t want him to think she was pining after him, which she may have done for the past year but not for the past week... fuck, timing in life sucks.

“Pour me a glass of wine, would you?” she asked, although she had one in the bathroom.

The bottle was open on the side; he dutifully obliged, knowing exactly which cabinet to grab a wine glass from.

He looked so comfortable in her kitchen, too comfortable. She guided him into the living room.

Reaching back to snatch the picture off the door and stuff it into the cutlery drawer, he hadn’t noticed, phew! Girls are so much brighter than men, she grinned to herself.

“I see you kept that picture then,” he said as he flopped onto the sofa.

“What picture?” she asked innocently, going pink.

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“The one you’ve just hidden…T, I think its sweet you kept it; we had fun together; it’s good to have memories.

Now come and sit down, tell me what you’ve been up to.

You look really well. I know that look. Someone must be popping your cork, who is he?”

There never was any messing with Ed; he always got straight to the point. He knew her so well. She sat down beside him, laughing. Maybe they could just be friends.

She relaxed.

“Ed, I have missed you; nothing gets past you,” she clinked his beer bottle with her glass, toasting their friendship.

They chatted away for hours, catching up on old times, her bath cold and forgotten. Tara had missed his easy, relaxed manner. His story telling had her in stitches - he had been a good friend and listener as well as a lover.

“How is whatsername, your poor long suffering wife, I was always so jealous of her, you broke my heart you know, choosing her over me; you had babies yet?”

Feeling safe in his company, she cuddled up beside him, pulling her legs under her. He went quiet, contemplating her question... oops! shouldn’t have brought up the wife, a stupid move; it would shift the convo into heavier territory. That was the wine for you, she had nearly finished the bottle. He was on his fourth beer. Both getting deliciously light-headed.

“Yeah, she’s still around, but no babies; I’ve been faithful for a while now, nearly a year, that’s bloody good 173

for me you know… nothing since you, T,” his face clouded over, becoming serious.

“You hurt, T, must have been mad letting you go, never thought I was quite good enough for you though, probably did you a favour…you don’t want an old rogue like me…have missed us though, missed this...”

He reached out and softly stroked the side of her face, leaning forward, out of habit; he gently blew strands of fringe out of her eyes, something he would often do when they were together, when he owned her body. She closed her eyes and let the cool air caress her skin; time went into slow motion. She felt familiar feelings come tumbling back, feelings that had been drowned with tears.

This was not a good idea. She knew where it would lead.

Fuck, how dare he want her, just when she had stopped wanting him, well almost!

Jumping up, she moved swiftly to the furthest point in the room, the window. Trying to get some space between them in her tiny living room. Facing him, she leaned back against the cold window pane, letting its coolness wake her up. He watched her. She knew that look, knew what he was thinking.

“No, no, no… Ed, don’t go there,” she raised her arm between them in mock self-defence. Taking a large gulp of wine, she looked at him pleadingly.

“That was a long time ago. We are just friends now.

You’ve got whatsername and I am just starting to see someone; finally, someone who could take the place of you; its early days but I like him…I don’t know…I think he likes me...” she was blabbering rubbish, fuck! He was

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making her nervous; she didn’t trust she could hold back if he touched her. She continued, “Whatever, whether I am or not, it would kill me to go through all that pain again with you; now get on the phone and find somewhere to stay; there are plenty of hotels around the corner.”

He ignored her. Putting down his beer, he slowly pulled himself up from the sofa, walked over to the window, and placed his hands above her shoulders, either side of the window frame, trapping her. Legs apart, standing strong in front of her inappropriately attired body. Oh God, that delicious smell of his was wafting into her senses again.

She felt the warmth of him; he was too close.

“Ed,” she stuttered, “this is not good for me. You can’t just bounce back into my life and pick up where we left off; it’s not fair; you made your choice a long time ago (he wasn’t listening) and before you do anything, (she raised her voice in slight panic) don’t even think about touching me or I will scream; I’ll kick you in the balls…”

He repositioned his leg, placing it firmly between her thighs - pinning her even more against the window. She groaned, feeling the pressure of his thigh pushing against her.

“You know, T, I always know when you say no and mean no and when you say no and mean yes. On this occasion, you mean yes.”

He smiled cheekily, moving in close to her face, his eyes locked on hers. He was always so bloody confident, so bloody right; she hated him. Hated herself more; she was 175

weak; her old pangs of wanting him came flooding back; that feeling he created deep inside her was working its way out. He knew it, but he cared less; he was just horny.

In that moment, she knew she would make love to him one last time; have closure on him and the sadness he had left in her, she would say goodbye through the only language they knew, sex.

Resting the empty wine glass on the window ledge, she caught him off guard; grabbing the front of his shirt with both hands, she tore it open, ripping off buttons in the process. He yelped, looking down aghast at his very expensive favourite bird-pulling shirt.

“Shit…T…what th...”

She slapped her mouth onto his. Forcing open his lips with her tongue, probing deep into his mouth. The hands, having made fast work of his shirt, then pounced on his fly, rubbing his shocked cock into life and grappling with the zip. In one swift movement, she pushed both jeans and boxers to his knees.

Looking down, she remembered why she had nicknamed him ‘Ed the Head’.

He pulled back for air, away from this flailing banshee, shaking his head, laughing. Being twice her size, he calmly took her arms and held them tight at her side to keep her still.

“T…T baby, wait a minute, what the hell are you doing?

Trying to shock me, eh? Teaching me a lesson…you are something else.”

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She relaxed back against the window, catching her breath, her dressing gown gapped open. Her breathing heavy and her hair falling over her face, she looked so fucking sexy. She had that hazy turned-on gaze in her eye that he remembered so well; he had missed this.

Back in control, he ran his hand down her body to the top of her legs. She watched quietly as he pulled on the belt of her silky gown and eased its soft material aside, exposing her nakedness. Tucking his hand between her legs, he immediately found the place and slid long gentle fingers up inside her. Her body jerked. She was wet. He began to rub her slowly backwards and forwards, enjoying the look in her face as she closed her eyes with pleasure and dropped her head back. He was gonna enjoy this…let the games begin.

A few feet above them, the whirring sound of the DVD recorder filled the room. David watched in awe; poor Franco, he would not enjoy this. But, when the time was right, he would get to see it. Bad, bad girl.

He watched them drive each other to the edge and back, time after time, their bodies moving from room to room like a violent ballet. These two were good.

They were against the wall of her bedroom now, her legs up around his waist. Holding her buttocks, he rammed her up and down, faster and faster, he felt his legs would give way; she was building, panting, pulling at his shoulders, his arms, anything she could hold tight.

“Don’t stop; please don’t stop!” she cried, “I’m coming!”

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It was all Ed could stand; he was ready to explode; he had been holding back, waiting for her. Her body was shaking out of control as she got closer and closer, faster and faster he pumped, meeting her rhythm, until she let out a long wail. Finally he let it go, joining her, somewhere right up inside her, over and over again…Why did he ever leave this woman?

They fell to the floor in giggles, out of breath. “Shit, I forgot how good it is with you, T,” he said in between gasps.

“Yeah, yeah, bet you say that to all the girls,” she teased, digging him in the ribs.

A little brown mouse popped out from under the bed and did a panic run across the floor, past their feet and out into the hallway.

“Oh fuck… what the…”

Ed jumped to his feet, pulling her up beside him. Leaping from one foot to the other, frightened to touch the floor.

His shrunken cock bouncing pathetically up and down like a little sausage, bungee jumping on acid. For all of his enormous size, he didn’t do mice…!

“Oh shit, there’s another one…urrrgh!” moaned Tara, hand held to her forehead. Psycho-mouse had a bloody wife.

She looked over at Ed making a fuss; he looked so funny; he was more scared than she was, typical…men!

“Don’t worry, it’s gone; I’ll look after you, big boy,” she giggled.

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Once she had managed to calm him down by placing four different types of traps across her bedroom doorway (heaven help him if he went for a pee in the night), they crawled under the covers of her bed and cuddled the night away. Reminiscing the old days, stroking and caressing.

She fell asleep with tears in her eyes. She wondered why he had come to her that night. Had he just been horny?

For old time’s sake? Whatever the reason she was grateful, he had released her. She knew she wouldn’t see him again; she knew this was goodbye, time for her to move on, learn to love and trust again. She was now free.

She guessed he knew that too. There was a tender thoughtfulness about him that she had not seen before, he was saying goodbye also. Some things were just not meant to be. He could never commit to her; they both knew that; it was just the way he was; they had had some lovely times; she was pleased he had been in her life; it was time to go in another direction... my god, the philosophy works!!

Franco crept into her thoughts, she smiled, if he ever found out about tonight, she hoped he’d understand.

Franco crept into David’s thoughts also.

He closed up for the night. Turned off the equipment and labelled the discs. He flicked off the light switch, locked the door, skipped catlike down the stairs to the hallway and out onto the street.

Walking home, the new disc tucked safely into his top pocket, he was happy with the footage he had caught, but angry with Tara for being unfaithful…again! He looked 179

up into the night sky; his angel had fallen but he and the Devil would have fun, as they had before. He winked up at him.

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Chapter Twenty-One 12:55 p.m., lunchtime. Cellini’s was already full of the hustle and bustle of a busy lunch hour. The girls had booked for 12:30, but as usual were late.

Sunlight poured in through the large windows and bounced off the pale lemon walls and white tablecloths, giving the restaurant a sun-drenched Mediterranean look, one of the reasons the girls loved it, it had a holiday feel, a chilled sunny place to take timeout from hectic London.

Josie had arrived first; sitting at the high barstool, bored; she crossed and uncrossed her long legs, playing the game of how much attention she could get. She leaned into the bar and sucked seductively on the straw of her drink. Bright red glossy lips exaggerated in their action... suffer, babies, suffer, she teased, enjoying the knowledge that all eyes were on her, both male and female.

She winced with pain, as she sat back upright; not such a good idea. Her client last night had been a bit heavy on 181

her; the vertebrae in her lower spine had been fused together from overenthusiastic pummelling. She had wanted to tell him to stop, but knew he was on the edge, wanting to get it over and done quickly, she had put up with it.

Her upper arms had thumb and finger bruises where he had held her. Shit, those marks take ages to go; she would have to drape a cardigan over her shoulders for a few days to hide it. Oh well! Goes with the territory. She tried to lightly brush it aside but didn’t like to be reminded of Josephine’s activities.

She sighed; at least the girls would take her mind off things, where were they? Almost time for another drink.

She seemed to be doing a lot of that recently. She must watch it; she was at the age where it wasn’t so easy to hide a booze-bloated face, which she couldn’t afford in her game.

Tara and Helen had bumped into each other outside the restaurant and bundled in through reception together, making a beeline for the bar, apologizing profusely to Josie for being late, again. Enzo picked up the remains of Josie’s drink and led them to their regular window table.

He would get someone else to take their order today, best to stay away from their table, far too hazardous.

At a discreet table for two, across the window from theirs, sat a beautiful brunette. Her cool brown eyes followed them as they walked across the room. So involved in each other’s chatter, they were oblivious to her.

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“I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks since we saw each other, girls, so much has happened, but first let’s get the drinks in… bottle of house rose do you?”

Tara scanned the menu, wanting to get the ordering over quickly so that they could get down to talking. She fancied something naughty like fish, chips and mushy peas but was enjoying the slimmer her and ought to be good... chef ’s Caesar salad? nah, boring. She stuck on seafood linguine, perfect.

The girls ordered.

“So who’s first, what’s been happening? Hel?…Josie?”

Helen had nothing exciting to report; she was still bored, bored, bored.

Josie started to talk about a great share deal she was doing, when the girl’s eyes predictably glazed over.

“How’s psycho-mouse, T?” asked Helen, anything but stocks and shares.

“Dead… finally! But…,” before the girls could start to applaud, “he left behind a wife and kids.”

“Told you, T, you left it too long, they have babies in eight weeks or so,” chastised Josie, “how many kids?”

“I don’t know; it’s gone mental; once I had caught him I started to catch all these others, smaller ones; I guess he was the provider and once he didn’t come home, they all came out in search of food, but they were not as savvy and got caught. It’s horrendous, I’ve caught nine 183

altogether, I feel sick just talking about it; it’s been taking over my life. Let’s change the subject…I’ve so much to tell you…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupted Josie, “which of the traps worked? We should know for when we get them.”

“I live in a Penthouse, there is no way will I get them,” announced Helen.

“Duh!! They can climb stairs honey,” corrected Josie.

“Well, three went in the Henry VIII head choppers, four on the glue things, yuk, they were still alive; I couldn’t bring myself to smash them over the head with a frying pan, urrrgh! I know I’m a coward but it is so gross… and two went with the humane thing; all preferred the peanut butter over chocolate, cheese, or raisins.”

“Next time just use the humane one, T, set them all free; you are so cruel,” whined Helen, not comfortable with hurting little animals, ignoring the fact that she often wore dead ones draped around her shoulders, she had dozens of fur coats.

“Well, that’s what I thought, but the first humane one I took to the park and let him free amongst the beautiful rose bushes, just as the little blighter was running to an exciting new life of freedom ten big black crows whooshed down, out of nowhere, and ate him up, tearing him apart in front of me; it was horrific!”

The girls stared at her, open-mouthed…

“So the next one I decided to set free in the low bushes of a smart communal garden down the road. Hoping that he

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could live on a life of caviar in one of those posh houses.

It was on my way to work and not many crows…”

She took a swig of wine; the suspense kept the girls quiet, waiting for her to continue.

“I popped him out of the trap, which is not easy to open leaning through iron railings, into a bush. Did he do the sensible thing and run to freedom; no, he jumps back out through the railings and follows me down the main road.

His little feet trying to keep up with me, running along the pavement. Mothers and children on their way to school and people at bus stops start screaming. ‘He’s not with me,’ I kept saying. He wouldn’t stop following me.

Then I reached the traffic lights of a cross-roads; he didn’t stop walking; before I knew it I was risking life and limb straddling the middle of the road stopping traffic so that he didn’t get run over…I tell you it is not easy trying to save a mouse. Anyway, he eventually ran into someone’s garden, someone else’s problem now..... I think that’s it. I haven’t had a squeak for a few nights now.”

Helen and Josie were speechless, what could they say? It could only happen to Tara. A faithful mouse.

“More importantly, let’s toast, I’m finally out of my dry patch, girls.”

Click, Click. he suspected she was telling them about Franco.

Click, Click. then she would tell them about Ed, what a busy girl his angel had been.

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“You bonked Franco, the Franco, the sexy gorgeous drop-dead bloody lovely Franco, worth £45m… in Seb’s smelly old Gents? What the hell, I don’t believe it, go girl,” screeched Helen, slightly louder than she should have. Normally any mention of Seb’s name gave her a stab of sadness, but this was too bloody exciting to worry about him.

The brunette’s back was bolt straight, her ears pinned back, tuned in to the girls’ conversation. She was trying hard not to smash the champagne glass held in her furious tight grip. Her lips and jaw set in stone, any more pressure in her mouth and she would crack her very expensive teeth.

“No, we didn’t do the full monty there, we did it in the lift… shit, I’m in trouble. If my bosses find out it’s me in those shots, I’m a dead’un, and Franco won’t do it without me, he thinks we can keep a lid on it.”

“What lift? What’s he like? He is soooo delish, T. Have you seen his hands? Well, of course you have… he talks with them a lot when he is being interviewed, and his forearms, they are soooo sexy; don’t care what he’s talking about; couldn’t give a monkey’s about footy; he is just so nice to watch, serious eye candy… Franco Rossellini, the thinking woman’s crumpet… fan-bloodytastic!”

Helen was getting truly excited now; the whole restaurant was beginning to tune into her excitement. Particularly the brunette. Enzo wished he had taken their table after all. He was a big fan of Franco Rossellini.

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“Shhhhhh, Hel,” rasped Josie, “big ’ands aren’t always big cocked; I’ve done some research,” she whispered, grinning. They pealed into laughter.

“Look girls, this is serious; I may lose my job,” pleaded Tara.

“Oh, but he is worth it, baby…Does he talk Italian when he’s doing it? What lift?”

“Hel, shut up,” Tara put her hand up to announce another big confession, “there’s more.”

“I know!” jumped in Helen, “you’re pregnant,” looking at Tara’s guilty face, taking it as a yes, “ohmigod…there’s gonna be a wedding; I’ve got the hat you know,” jumping up and down in her seat, “how romantic; conceived in a lift…”

“No,” whispered Tara, now losing her patience a little, “I shagged Ed.” Hearing the words ‘pregnant’ and ‘wedding’, the brunette took a sharp intake of breath; her glass dropped to the terracotta floor. The noise of glass hitting stone shattered the restaurant’s buzzy lunchtime chatter. Followed by an embarrassed silence, while everyone looked around for the culprit.

Seeing it was a miserable-looking beauty, sitting alone, probably being stood up, they turned back to their food.

Waiters ran to her aid, she ordered another drink, tapping her foot nervously. Taking deep breaths, in desperate need of a cigarette.

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“Oops, poor thing, how embarrassing; don’t you hate it when your date doesn’t turn up; must be awful for her, she’s so pretty, must be a model or something. Oh look, here comes her date now…” Josie’s face went white with recognition.

Click, Click. this was priceless...

“It’s Franco Rossiwhatsisface, T,” whispered Josie, “don’t look around, it’s ’im, ohmigod... don’t look, stay calm... he hasn’t seen you... the two-timing pig… does ’e know you’re pregnant? The little shit…”

Tara’s last comment finally dawning on her, Josie squealed, “you did what, shagged Ed the Head?” turning full onto Tara, Franco forgotten.

“While pregnant wiv anuva man’s child? T, how could you?” fine morals, coming from a whore…

Tara couldn’t help but turn round. Josie was right: Franco, her Franco (Ok, she had forgotten him momentarily when with Ed the Head) was kissing the brunette on the cheek and making his apologies for being late. He sat down opposite her, bending down, ordering a beer from the gob-smacked Enzo, who was on his knees under the table, cleaning up the glass. He had not seen her. She froze.

“Ohmigod,” turning back to the girls.

“I’ve gotta get outta here, this is awful, I feel sick, how dare he!”

Click, Click. what a commotion.

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“T, sickness will be the pregnancy...be cool; she could be his sister or agent or something; don’t jump to any conclusions. You don’t want to upset the baby,” soothed a caring Helen.

“I AM NOT PREGNANT!” Tara shouted, finally losing it.

The restaurant fell silent again; heads turned, all eyes on Tara, including Franco’s. Now he had definitely noticed her. She felt herself go pink, then burgundy red.

Pulling herself together, she smiled charmingly at the maitre d’, mouthing an exaggerated “Sorry,” shrugging her shoulders and giggling as if a joke, pretending not to notice Franco, who had gone rather pale. The brunette opposite him was furiously tapping her long manicured nails on the side of her new glass.

The maitre d’ manoeuvred effortlessly with the stealth of a U-boat across the room to the girls’ table.

“Everything ok ladies? Can I get you anything further?” ... like the bill, he muttered to himself.

“Yep, another bottle and a large gin and tonic please,” squeaked Helen, hurt at being shouted at, confused about the baby, the wedding, Ed the Head, and trying to see how big Franco’s hands actually were.

They sat bunched together, whispering, heads leaning in close over their deserted plates of food.

Click, Click. poor little girls, not so happy now, are we?

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Tara gradually put them right, explained about the photo shoot, the lift, Ed the Head’s visit, that she was not pregnant or getting married, but about to lose her job.

“And to top it all off, someone has scratched ‘BITCH’ on the hood of my car and I keep getting weird calls and text messages from numbers I don’t recognize.”

She had had a text message that morning: ‘ watch out, bitch, gonna get ya’. She had written the number down and vowed to talk to the police about it. She had replied, ‘and who the fuck r u?’ No reply as yet.

Franco watched the back of Tara’s head nervously from across the room. Hoping that she would turn round and recognize him so that he could go over and say hi. Maria was behaving very strangely; she had called this meeting so that (he thought) they could finish amicably. But she kept muttering about fatherhood and marriage to an English whore.

“Maria, you know our splitting is for the best, I do not have time for a proper relationship right now. I have to put everything into my career this season, no distractions, I’m sorry.”

“Babies take up a lot of time, Franco; I’m surprised you have time for them…you bastard, and suddenly you’re ready to get married; when did that happen? Bastard,” she cursed at him.

“Marriage, babies…what the hell are you going on about?” she wasn’t making any sense; he couldn’t concentrate on her jibberish; he was too busy trying to catch Tara’s eye, which didn’t help matters with Maria.

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“What the hell were you doing with Ed? I thought he was over a long time ago?” questioned Helen.

“Yes, No, I mean.... I know I shouldn’t have, but do you know what, it has cured me; all that sadness has lifted.

We had a goodbye bonk, closure. Now I can get on with another relationship; I thought that it would be Franco; fat chance, dream on! Is he looking over; are they being lovey-dovey? How dare he, and I thought he was so bloody honourable. All men are shits; the one lunchtime we are not together having nookie, what does he do, shag a stick insect!!!!”

It was then she noticed that the girls had gone quiet, staring open-mouthed, up over her head.

“Hello, Tara,” that unmistakable deep voice.

Franco was standing over her; he leaned down and kissed her cheek, his wonderful big hand on her shoulder (Helen noticed).

“I’m here with an old friend, didn’t know you used this place.

I won’t disturb you, will call you later,” he nodded a lovely smile at the girls and joined an incensed Maria, waiting at the reception door, anxious to leave.

Tara, speechless, smiled weakly after him, muttering to the girls under her breath, “oh shit, how long had he been there? Did he hear everything?”

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Josie and Helen ignored her; they were too busy following his bandy-legged body as it sauntered leisurely away, gob-smacked schoolgirls nudging each other.

“Girls…behave,” she giggled, pleased he had come over to speak to her and that her girls thought him as gorgeous as she did.

Click, Click. he had had enough.

Seeing Franco in the shot had lost his appetite for the day, he angrily packed up his bag and went home. He had been getting glares from the coffee shop staff anyway, may have to leave this venue alone for a while.

Stepping out into the street, he walked past the parked Mercedes, its newly sprayed hood, shining in the afternoon sun. Its driver sitting quietly behind a newspaper, sunglass-hidden eyes watching David saunter down the road. Its engine purred into life as he turned a corner.

Franco joined the moody brunette at reception; she was anxious to leave. He held open the door as she stepped haughtily out into the sunshine, flicking her long auburn hair into his face as she passed. He glanced back at Tara with an apologetic smile and followed her, knowing the journey home was not going to be easy. He regretted giving Michael the day off, for some strange reason she never argued in front of Michael; he would have dispatched her for him.

Word had got out that he was there; he happily signed a few autographs on the steps of the restaurant, while Miss Moody high-heel-tottered on the curb as she balanced waving down a taxi and lighting up a much-needed fag.

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The girls watched the impossibly long-legged, miniskirted model through the window.

“Phew, thank God for that,” sighed Tara, “couldn’t stand being in the same room as him and his bird. I bet they’re off for a shag now, Christ I hate relationships. Men can never be faithful… it’s in their genes… they need to sow their seed in any bloody direction.”

Noticing the girls’ grins, “what?” “’err, hello…!!!” they said in unison, staring big-eyed back at her.

“Well, I learned from men…the bastards…they taught me that there is no point in being faithful; they never are, so why should we be?…besides, I knew Ed well before Franco; I was just saying goodbye.”

Tara took a large slurp of her drink; she hadn’t finished moaning.

“Look at the size of her, a skeleton, I’ve seen more meat on a straw; it’s not the bed that rattles when she shags, it’s her bones. She has champagne for lunch, when she is not chucking it on the floor; no wonder there is nothing of her. Hope he doesn’t mind halitosis; people who don’t eat have bad breath.”

They watched as Maria, teetering on the curb, dragged hard on a cigarette. Closing her eyes, she threw back her glossy head and slowly exhaled the calming drug high into the air. For that perfect moment, she looked the beautiful elegant mannequin she was. The look was soon ruined when, hunched over, she frantically searched 193

through her bag for another fag, red manicured fingers anxiously flicking through its contents, all the while angry eyes scanning the streets for the yellow light of a black cab.

“And she smokes like a trooper; ashtray breath smidgenly surpasses halitosis breath, I suppose, and how the hell do those skinny legs not snap, especially in those heels?,” jealousy was not becoming.

“Now, now, T, retract talons, SO not a good look… actually I think they hate each other; there is no way he is into her and look at her, she looks like death, really pissed off. He said they were old friends. He’ll call you tonight and explain all; he may be a little confused about the pregnancy bit though...” Helen slapped her friend’s wrist and waved at the waiter for coffee. “... give him a chance; he looked really pleased to see you, yummy body; must be fab in the sack, wouldn’t need to fake it with him,” Helen giggled, Tara calmed.

Waiting for the coffee, they discussed her job. Surely she could get away with it; the whole campaign would be all the more exciting if the girl was never found, it could be the making of her career.

“How is Seb, T? Got loads of women all over him, I bet,” Helen asked casually, the drink releasing her tongue, “still miss him, you know; don’t think I will ever get over him,” she said dreamily, “the one that got away.”

The girls knew better than to encourage this line of conversation; they knew how it hurt her. She had had a load of guys since Seb but would lose interest very quickly and move onto the next. Her appetite to find a

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man that ticked all the boxes was ferocious. They worried about her increasing promiscuity, hoping her slapper phase was just that…a phase. As long as she kept using protection, they guessed she was old enough to decide for herself.

“I’m trying a new thing at the moment, just giving BJ’s, no internal stuff. See how long we can wait, it may make the relationship last longer, a bit more respect and all that…” the girls stared at her, she hated BJ’s.

“I know… I was shit at it, but I’ve found a teacher, someone who doesn’t mind giving instruction; Donal, you remember him, the Irish jockey I met at AA last week; well he actually talks me through the whole exercise, been training me up, bless him. He does a running commentary, his lingo is a bit dramatic at times, I feel like I am in the last race at Lingfield, but the finishing line is SO exciting. Gave him seven yesterday, he thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. The last one was on the motorway on the way back from Goodwood; he nearly did die, we just missed a juggernaut… he is SO small behind the wheel, bless him.”

The girls looked at her open-mouthed, drinks held midair.

“How’s your reverse parking coming along?” asked Josie casually.

“What?” Helen scrunched up her confused freckled nose.

“Nothing...” “But angel, what do you get out of it, except lock-jaw?” butted in a concerned Tara, “isn’t the pleasure a bit one-sided?”

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They bombarded her with questions.

“Surely it’s not good for you, all that protein in one day?”

“Can’t be that good for your digestion, or are you following the fake swallowing method?”

“You hate horse racing? Full of muck and boring old farts, you said.”

“Is it fattening?”

“But you’re not a member of AA?” Franco forgotten, they were back on course.

“Actually the horsey crowd are great; I was so wrong about them; they think of nothing else but sex; must be all that sweat, hay, and horse flesh, topped with the excitement of gambling, winning… he may be short but he is perfectly formed; wall to wall tendons and muscles; not a smidge of fat in sight; strong as an ox; he flips me around all over the place,” Helen giggled.

“But I want to deepen our feelings before we go ‘wham bam, thank you, ma’am.’ My body is a temple and all that palaver. Get to know him better, find out if we really are compatible. Trouble is we don’t do a lot of talking due to my mouth being full, and I am losing a fortune in jewellery, I have to remove my rings, they tear him to pieces, I keep losing the buggers, it has its limitations, but I’m giving it a try. You can meet some very interesting people at AA meetings; shall we have a cognac with our coffee?”

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They were used to her crazy theories; she was always trying out something new. This was at least an improvement on her Russian period, when she was dating a Russian diplomat. He loved her smelling dirty and refused to let her shower or shave. Their friendship had been truly tested, eating with her a nightmare; bouillabaisse for lunch was a hit, all that fish and garlic covered the stench. Josie took to holding a lavender oilsoaked hanky to her nose throughout lunch, and spraying scent in Helen’s direction under the table; it cost a fortune in perfume.

Luckily the Russian period only lasted a few months. She eventually noticed that he washed regularly; he kept her smelly to ward off other men. He had also neglected to tell her that due to a long term sinus inflammation as a child, he had lost his sense of smell. Damned bloody cheek.

Her Greek period was marginally better, Vasilis the Greek only believed in using the back passage, good contraception, he said. He was paranoid about commitment and getting caught with a baby. Luckily he was not that well-endowed, a button-mushroom, so she suffered it. After a session with him, chair work was a little tender; consequently, lunch would be eaten standing at the bar. The girls patiently put up with the farting, she had no control; and the constipated duck walk; not a good look, even with sexy shoes. They waited patiently until she tired of him, there was no telling her; friendship lasts forever, men come and go and all that…

Josie would listen to these stories quietly; she had experienced a lot worse, but had been very well paid for it. It annoyed her that Helen offered these exploits for 197

free; maybe she should suggest she charge. At the end of each lunch or drunken evening session with the girls, she would fall into a small depression; she really needed to confide in them about what she did for a living. The alcohol would loosen her tongue, but fear of rejection held her back. This day was no exception.

“Doesn’t Donal complain, darling; doesn’t he want a bit more?” asked Tara, “I mean, surely it’s OK for a while, but I suspect he enjoys full sex too; it must drive him mad.”

“I’ve told him I have vaginal warts; he’s not sure what they are, but is in fear of going anywhere near down there…So it’s not a problem.”

Helen crossed her legs uncomfortably, not exactly sure what they were herself but hoped she would never get them.

“I’m a whore,” announced Josie.

The hovering Enzo stared at her. Maybe he should consider becoming gay. You learned so much about women working in the restaurant business.

“You are a saint compared to me, Josie, dream on,” Helen laughed.

“I’m a whore, a prostitute, a hooker, a brass, that’s what I do. I don’t ‘ave a posh job in the city, I’ve been lying to you all this time… I’m so sorry,” there, her big secret was finally out.

“Pardon?,” whispered Helen, wide-eyed.

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Tara stared at her, surely she was joking.

“Don’t look at me like that; I couldn’t bear it if you hated me,” tears welled in Josie’s eyes.

Tara continued to stare at her friend, not recognizing her, this had to be a joke.

“Shit, Josie, what the hell are you talking about; you’re drunk!”

“No, I’m deadly serious. I’m a tart.... an ‘orse an cart, an old tom, a fucking whore, what can I say girls... I get paid to screw,” she put her hands up in the air in mock surrender, the girls continued to stare at her, open mouthed.

“Look, I know it must be a shock, but it doesn’t make me any different,” she pleaded, “I still luvs ya.”

She tried to grab Tara’s hand, but Tara snapped it away as if she would catch something. Josie’s heart fell.

“I haven’t been able to tell you, in case you reacted like this, for gawd’s sake Tara, I avent got the lurgy or nuffin .... please, I’ve kept up the lie for so long its killin me, please don’t judge me,” she looked toward Helen for support. Helen beamed excitedly from ear to ear.

“Bloody hell Josie, you’re not joking are you, Ohmigod!”

Tara had had enough, she glanced at her watch and, sounding not unlike her mother, said tersely, “it’s late; 199

let’s get the bill,” she waved at Enzo, drawing a signature in the air.

“Fan-bloody-tastic,” squealed Helen, “that beats my little world any day; hope you charge a fortune, girl. How exciting; tell me all about it; I have never met a real hooker… why haven’t you told us before… how long have you been doing it; what’s it like?”

“HELEN, shut up; she’s lying. She works in the city; we’ve all had a lot to drink; c’mon, let’s go, I’m late for the office, we’ll pay at reception,” Tara was in denial.

“It’s true, T…I’ve been doing it for years, paid my way through school wiv it…but I do deal in shares, I ha...”

“You have lied to us all this time?” Tara butted in, “all these years?”

“I’m sorry; but I didn’t know how to tell ya, I wanted to, but was always too scared of losing ya.”

“Friends confide in each other, no matter what; they don’t lie. It’s ok for us to tell you everything, for you to judge, but you don’t tell us everything.... you’ve got another life that we know nothing about, a dangerous life, how do you think that makes us feel, bloody stupid!”

Tara stood up from the table, shaking with rage. She didn’t want to hear any more.

“I don’t know you...” she grabbed her bag, turned her back on her friend, and walked over to the reception desk to pay the bill.

Josie was crushed; she gazed after her, helpless. She shouldn’t have said anything, Tara hated her, she knew it

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would happen, why had she said it? She started to cry uncontrollably, head bowed, mascara running. Helen put her arm around her.

“C’mon, girl, let’s get out of here, back to my place you can tell me all about it over a coffee; T’s just being precious; she’ll get over it; it’s a shock; you know how big she is on honesty and all that shit,” making a mental note to strangle Tara when she next had the chance.

They gathered themselves up and met her out on the pavement; she had summoned a cab.

“Gotta go, speak later. Helen, sober her up, will you; she’s talking gibberish, bye…”

Not being able to look Josie in the face, she jumped into the fast black and sped off into the traffic, leaving a bereft Josie and excited Helen on the pavement. The maitre d’ of Cellini’s shut the door after them, thanking God they didn’t eat there every day.

Tara sat back in the cab, tears welled in her eyes ... Josie a prostitute, how could she not have told us? it’s got to be a joke, she’s winding us up.

But deep down, Tara knew she wasn’t. Christ, she had behaved like a stuck-up bitch, a great friend she was! She had let her fear get the better of her and lashed out. If she couldn’t fix a problem she became frightened, she would then bluster with rage to cover it up. Fear made her aggressive, especially fear for those she loved.

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Chapter Twenty-Two The taxi driver pulled up to the traffic lights; he sighed as he checked on the couple in his back seat through the mirror. They were a beautiful couple, had everything going for them, but looked as miserable as sin, each glaring out of a window, steadfastly ignoring the other, ever since he had picked them up.

How lucky he and his missus were. They may not be the most glamorous couple on the block, or the richest, but they sure knew how to talk to each other, not like the spoiled young of today, who had it all and still they’re miserable; they don’t know they’re born. Bring back national service.

These two in the back are typical; you could have more fun as Sweeney Todd’s dinner guest. Let’s bung some Dean Martin on, that’ll relax ’em. He punched the play button on his old cassette player. ‘Everybody loves somebody sometime’ wafted out of the speakers.

Franco sat hunched in the corner of the back seat, as far away from Maria as possible, staring stony faced out the

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window, avoiding eye contact. Imagining they could meet on good terms was a big mistake, he would have to start being cruel to get rid of her.

How the hell did he have the misfortune to bump into Tara? What a mess. Looking at his watch, wondering if she was still there; he could go back and see her. Why did Michael always have a day off when he needed him; he could have sent Michael over to pick her up.

“Look, I’m not in the mood to talk,” Franco broke the silence and handed her a £20 note, “take the cab on. I’ll call you tonight.” ... at least they’re talking now, thought the cabbie, he didn’t like bad vibes in his cab; made him uneasy... good old deano.

Maria leaped off her seat and plonked herself on the folddown one behind the driver, facing Franco. Without giving him time to move, she put her legs between his, and swiftly lifted one stilettoed foot up, pinning it against his chest, pushing him back into the seat. The silk of her miniskirt billowing in the wind of the open window, showing a provocative glimpse of black laced underwear. ... oh gawd! thought the cabbie... now they’re getting on too well, it’s broad daylight she can’t do that, he doesn’t look too ’appy, either... maybe she doesn’t like deano... let’s put some frankie baby on, he grabbled for his Sinatra CD and turned ‘My way’ on full volume.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Mr. Wiseguy?,” Maria’s voice was shaking with anger, shouting over the music, “I’m not some floozy you can pay off with a taxi 203

journey home; keep your fucking money, give it to your English whore; she’ll need it with the baby and all, you bastard.”

Oh dear, even over Frankie’s dulcet tones the cabbie could hear it all. ... she’s gonna kill ’ im, not do the business wiv ’ im, he picked up speed... better get these guys home pronto, before I see me’self on Crimewatch TV. Maria turned in her seat; keeping Franco pinned in his, and slid the taxi’s partition window shut with a slam.

Blocking out the driver and his bloody music.

“What baby; what are you talking about?” in softer tones, he pleaded with her, trying hard not to lose his temper.

“Maria, we are over; this is not working. It hasn’t done for months. You’ve gotta move on; I thought we could just be friends but we keep going back to square one. It’s best we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

She increased her pressure, making him wince with pain; he grabbed her ankle.

“Get your foot outta my chest; you’re frightening the driver,” he shouted. She loved it when he was angry, it was easier to turn him on.

She mischievously trailed the point of her shoe slowly down his chest, following the path to the top of his open legs. Coming to rest gently on his cock. Her long, brown, soft legs went on forever. The wind caught her skirt, lifting it higher, exposing more black lace and tanned silky skin. She gave him a catlike grin and undid the buttons on her cream silk shirt; a bronzed hard nipple

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poked into view. The atmosphere in the car shifted gear.

Franco felt very uneasy; he knew where this was going... oh no!

She pressed her shoe against him, increasing and decreasing the pressure rhythmically. She knew how to get to him.

“Maria, Maria, don’t do that,” he groaned unconvincingly, “you know it will end in tears,” his balls tingled into life... oh shit, he didn’t need this, but she looked so fucking horny.

The cabbie was driving for his life... Lewis Hamilton, eat ya heart out! It had gone quiet, checking his mirror he saw the bird lean into the bloke and kiss him, she was doing something with her hands in his lap... oops, we’re back in business again.

He slowed down to a comfortable speed... wish they would make up their bloody minds.

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Chapter Twenty-Three He felt happy with his new pictures, even though that bastard Franco turned up at the end. Arriving with another bird had certainly put the cat among the pigeons.

He should have stayed to see the outcome, but his anger at seeing Franco had become too much; he didn’t trust himself to remain calm. His time would come. He wondered what had happened. Poor Tara, realizing she’s not the only one in her lover’s bed.

His anger subsided as he meandered home. Looking up, he saw a face he recognized, coming out of a renowned gay bar, ten feet in front of him. Now, where the hell had he seen that face before? The guy’s body language was nervous, trying hard to be inconspicuous. He sure as hell wasn’t a regular there; he looked like a fish out of water, and anyway, David would have remembered him; it was a haunt of his. Yet he did know him from somewhere.

Where?

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He was kinda cute, in a scruffy rugby player sort of way.

Out of his depth here, though, a different type of scrum going on in the bar he had just come out of.

David leaned against the wall for a moment, pretending to be engrossed in his phone, waiting to see where Mr. Handsome was headed.

The guy turned and walked towards him, looking around nervously. That’s it! It was that guy Seb from school, the one Helen was into, the one he kissed on the night he found out about his mother. Another one who had walked out on him; he had begged him to stay but he ran, the bastard. He had been put on the penance list.

With a smile, it dawned on David that he must also be the Seb Tara talked about, who was working on the campaign. How very fortunate. The plot thickens, a little gift sent by the Devil; what fun!…and oh SO cute.

“Seb, Seb, is that you?” David shouted out to a shocked Seb, “my God, how good to see you, old boy!”

He ran the distance between them and, before the dumbstruck Seb could move, grabbed his shoulders, shaking him like a long-lost friend. David enjoyed playing the actor, the chameleon extraordinaire.

“It’s been so long, how the hell are you?”

Seb just stared, unable to talk.

“I keep up with your news via Tara and Helen,” David lied, “my God, you look great, you must come and have a 207

coffee, I can’t believe my luck in bumping into you like this, I need your help.”

Seb was bowled over by David’s excitement; he didn’t recognize him at first, but when he mentioned the girls, his heart sank. This was Helen’s brother, the boy who had started his problems, all those years ago. Surely he had to remember that night in the dorm; how embarrassing... shit! fuck! had he seen him come out of the bar?

“Ah yes, David, isn’t it? How is Helen? I haven’t seen you in ages,” he said, looking down at his watch, “look, sorry, must dash, I’m late for a meeting,” he lied unconvincingly. He forgot how good-looking David was.

“Oh no you don’t; cancel the meeting; come and have a coffee; I only live across the road there. I’m planning a lovely birthday surprise for Helen; you can help me; she so adores you.”

“No honestly, I gggotta go,” Seb stuttered.

“Go on, for Helen. Just around the corner; it’ll take five minutes… go on… for old time’s sake.”

David dragged Seb off across the road to a chorus of angry car horns, as they interrupted impatient traffic. Seb followed like a lamb. His mind racing, isn’t this what he came here for, sussing out the gay scene, testing the waters. After all these years, it seems ironic to bump into the one guy who set him off on this track. The one guy who started these bloody desires in the first place. He felt the old longings come flooding back.

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He was trying to visit a gay bar, to test the waters, to find out what he really was. It had taken a lot of courage, he had denied his sexuality for so long, it was time to do something about it. Women didn’t do it for him; he had been surrounded by them for years through his work, obscenely beautiful models; he was the envy of all his mates, but the memory of that afternoon in the school dorm haunted all sexual encounters. He had given up dating women; the repeated failure was too humiliating.

He had begun to watch more and more male porn; it was the only thing that turned him on. He would wank and then heave, sick with the feeling of dirt and shame.

He tried a prostitute to see if a professional could arouse him, but it was a failure; they talked, her hour of time became a counselling session. He broke down and told her, a complete stranger that he knew would not judge him, everything. She held him as he sobbed, gently suggesting that he needed to be honest with himself, and try a guy. What was the big deal? In this day and age it was accepted and celebrated; who cared whether he was straight or gay, get on with it?

So here he was running down a street with the man who had started it all. He felt strangely elated, excited; this is what he had been looking for.

David had turned off the main street and taken them down some steps to a basement flat door. Seb had not said a word, all he could think of was David’s grip on his arm, excitement flooded through him, he couldn’t talk.

David released him and fished the key out of his pocket.

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“Here we are, home sweet home,” David announced as he threw open the door for Seb to step inside. Seb obeyed, his heart pounding.

The flat was impressive: soothing, bright, and glamorous.

The boy had taste and was obviously doing well, then Seb remembered something about Helen and her brother coming into an inheritance a while back, he wonder what he did for a living, if he worked at all.

David pushed him into the living room, throwing aside what looked like a camera case.

“Sit down, boy, let me get you a coffee, espresso do you?

Excuse the mess; wasn’t expecting guests,” the place was immaculate.

David busied himself in the open plan kitchen; a large breakfast bar separated the two areas, living and cooking.

He seemed to have all manner of cooking instruments known to man. Pots, jugs, ladles, and pans hung from every available space. Herbs, pulses, pastas were packed in glass jars, covering the work surface. Very professional-looking; reminded Seb of one of those celebrity chef programs. The guy could obviously cook.

Seb sat down in the nearest of the huge cream sofas. It was deep and soft, he started to relax a little. This is just two guys having a coffee, catching up on old times, he told himself. The smell of coffee filled the air as David ground beans in the kitchen.

Looking around, the place seemed quite macho, maybe David was straight after all. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Shit, how the hell could you tell? He looked around for signs. Everything was beautiful; art,

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sculptures, flowers, the decor simple and classy. But straight guys could have good taste, couldn’t they?

Maybe the bathroom would show signs.

“Where’s the Gents, mate?” Seb said in his deepest macho voice. David laughed; he sounded more Aussie than Irish.

“Down the corridor, one on the left and one the right, depends if you want a shower or a bath... mate,” he mimicked, giggling.

Seb joined in nervously, not sure what was so funny. He jumped up and strode (as manly as possible) down the corridor. Looking straight ahead, past the shower room, he noticed an open door to room at the back of the flat.

Through the door, he caught sight of a wall covered floor to ceiling in paparazzi style black-and-white photographs. A single spotlight shone on the wall; the rest of the room was in darkness. Each picture seemed to be of the same face, close-ups, long distant, group shots, intimate blurred lines of entwined bodies. Seb tried to focus on what he was seeing.

David’s hand hit his shoulder, he jumped.

“This way, mate,” David breathed into his ear, as he physically lifted and turned Seb into the bathroom doorway. He had the strength of an ox.

“That’s my den, very messy, you don’t want to go in there, you don’t know what you might find,’ he sniggered, ‘will the shower loo do you?”

“Oh yeah, sorry; lost my bearings; thanks.”

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An embarrassed Seb fell into the bathroom, promptly closing the door behind him. David had touched him again; the electricity rushed through him. God, he felt like a stupid kid with a crush. His hardening cock made it difficult to pee.

Having found no tell-tale signs of David’s sexuality in the bathroom cabinet, he returned to the living room. The den door at the end of the corridor was now firmly closed. He found two steaming hot cups of coffee and David waiting for him. David was lounging on one sofa so he opted for the other, facing him.

They sat chatting for over an hour. Catching up on school, on life, on everything except that night in the dorm. Seb filled David in on a scandal that had hit Heddington Hall after he had left, three staff had been brutally murdered, the Headmaster, the school priest and a science professor. David was shocked. They giggled over the meteoric rise of four pupils in their year who were now Members of Parliament, helping to run the country, no wonder it was in such a bloody awful state.

They found that they had photography in common, and discussed the magic of it.

Seb’s mind kept wandering; he couldn’t help but let his eyes drift to David’s crotch. David didn’t help, he had opened his shirt, complaining of the heat, and sat with his legs wide open, facing Seb. While they chatted he would, seemingly innocently, rub his thighs, spreading his hands wide over the leg muscle, gently massaging the length of it.

Maybe kissing boys had just been a phase that David had gone through and now he was firmly heterosexual,

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panicked Seb. Why do I want him so badly? Gotta get outta here and have a wank.

As if reading his mind, David jumped up and walked around the back of the sofa.

“You know what?” he bent down and pulled out his camera from the black bag he had been carrying earlier.

“Gonna put you on the other side of the camera for a change, stay right there, the light is really good coming in on you from the window.”

He lifted the camera to his face and started to focus on Seb. “Nah, not me mate, I don’t go there... pig ugly me,” he turned away embarrassed, David ignored him. ‘Give it a rest,’ he laughed, shielding his hand between them, selfconscious with the attention.

“Besides, I thought I was here to talk about a surprise for Helen,” he queried through splayed fingers.

David expertly manoeuvred the camera in and around his reluctant muse’s hands. All the while giving vocal encouragement, his voice low and teasing.

“Yeah, that’s good.”

Click, Click.

“Yeah, you look great, Seb.” They began to laugh as Seb jumped up to get away and 213

David chased him around the room, the camera clicking furiously.

Click, Click.

“That’s it, just like that.”

“Love it... keep doing that…”

Seb was beginning to enjoy himself, being chased, having someone else try and capture some magic in him for a change.

“You look great, yeah…”

He played the fool now, posing in different silly positions, sticking out his tongue, jumping up and down like an ape, crawling on the floor, sitting at the piano pretending to play it like an old pro, the crashing sound of the notes, horrendous, all the while David following, encouraging.

Boisterous laughter filled the room. Finally, Seb, performing an ill-timed spectacular superhero leap from one sofa to another, tripped and fell. He lay flat out on his back; heaving with exhaustion... he gave up.

‘I surrender,’ he gasped, ‘that’s enough.’

David quickly straddled him, the camera poised over his face, catching the joy in it.

“Enough…enough,” he begged.

Click, Click.

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“That’s it... gotcha!.. finally caught the real you,” he shouted triumphantly as he relaxed laughing, and plumped down astride his model.

Silence.

You could hear a pin drop, the atmosphere changed gear.

David had straddled Seb’s groin, pinning him flat out, the camera forgotten, held in limbo between them. Seb stared up into David’s beautiful face, enjoying the weight of his body pushing down on his cock, the delicious feeling of sexual submission washed over him; he could pass out with pleasure.

The look in David’s eyes as he watched Seb said it all; they were back in the Heddington Hall dormitory, two boys bound together in a secret moment. Seb’s tight short breaths grew louder, breaking the silence; he waited, unsure what to do next.

“There is no Helen’s birthday surprise,” whispered, “I said that to get you here.”

David

He leaned down and gently kissed Seb’s open mouth.

The hot softness of his lips sent a rush through Seb, he couldn’t move. His mouth hung open as David pulled away, begging for a second kiss. His eyes pleaded for more.

David held back, enjoying the moment of power over his pathetic prey... he’s gagging for it, whimpering like a puppy, ready to let me do anything I want... just the way I like them, let him wait a little longer, soon I will take him, the longer he waits, the sweeter it will be, he won’t 215

know what’s hit him. He felt the beginnings of Seb’s hard-on nudge beneath him.

Mission accomplished, his mood switched, he got up sharply, purposefully ruining the moment. Standing over Seb, eyeing the bulge in his jeans.

“Oops, sorry luv, forgot you’re into women, forgive my rudeness,” he spat sarcastically, his head rocking back with laughter.

Seb, confused at the sudden change in attitude, scrambled to his feet, the bastard was laughing at him, it was as if he had two personalities, what was he playing at? He pulled himself together, embarrassed hands covering his tell-tale cock.

“No, no, it’s OK... must go, have that meeting to go to, really late now. Thanks for the coffee, David.”

He ran for the door, desperate to get out, get some air... what happened?

David shouted after him, “when you decide to stop running away, I’m here, you won’t be able to deny it forever Seb, some things are stronger than us, sex is one of them!”

David followed him out the door and shouted up the steps.

“Don’t leave it too long; I may not fancy you forever, you’re cute, but not that cute sweetie!”

His words stung in Seb’s ears as he crashed out onto the noisy Brompton Court Road. Tears pricked his eyes...

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fuck, the shame of it, he was again back at school, running down the corridor to get away from David and the feeling of dirt.

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Chapter Twenty-Four Tara had had absolutely no joy trying to persuade Franco to let someone else do the shoot, the ad agency were so excited about the campaign that they bent over backwards to get Franco to agree to the very lucrative contract. Everyone was happy but Tara. The Italy trip was looming. She tried one last stab at talking it through with Seb. They met for a drink at the Foyal Ruck Bar, a popular haunt in Fulham, and came clean about her fears. He was sympathetic, but felt they could get away with it.

“Look… I sorted it with everyone involved in the original shoot; they are signing a privacy contract.

They’ve all agreed to keep quiet, they like working with me, no worries. All we have to do now is set up the contract with the model, you, via my office; the ad boys see it’s all secure; we can have a privacy clause in there if you like, they’ll go for that; it suits them to keep the intrigue.”

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“If this gets out, my job is dust, you know what those anal fence-sitting corporate boys are like Seb, some of them would love nothing more than to twist this into more than it is, I’ve worked hard to build up a reputation within this business; conning your superiors is not a good thing on a CV.” “You are over-reacting, babe. If this goes well, it could also be the making of you, think of the publicity, ‘Producer of Campaign of the year’ outsmarts the ad boys; you would be made, set up your own agency, stuff em I say.”

“Urrrgh! I’ve got a bad vibe about this Seb, I’ll do it, but I’m not happy.”

Tara sipped her drink tentatively, looking around the bar.

The Foyal Ruck was full of beautiful boys and girls, draped over large sofas, dining tables, and chairs. The place had a cosy, debauched country manor feel, complete with fireplaces, candelabras and hunting paraphernalia. Stunning eight foot high oil paintings by Scarlett Raven adorned the walls. Tartan fabrics were mixed with fur and lace. Not what Tara would have put together, but it seemed to work in a bohemian missmatch way. They had found a private nook area in the corner, tucked behind a suit of armour clad in stockings and suspenders. The nook housed a tartan sofa, fireplace, and backgammon board coffee table.

Surveying the scene, she felt old and fat. The boys looked so young in their grown-up business suits, their fat knotted ties and gelled hair. The girls had fab bodies; washboard stomachs framed with skimpy tops and tight low-slung jeans, were lounging everywhere. Whatever 219

happened to waistbands? She didn’t remember her stomach ever looking that good, even at their age.

A melody of cell phones rang and bleeped around her.

People didn’t go out with their mates anymore. They went out with their phone, spending all night at the bar checking mail. The art of one-on-one conversation had come to an end. She was sounding more and more like her mum. ... lighten up , she told herself... get with the program, get ya phone out, and play with it. That reminded her, she must get a new ringtone. The laughing frog on amphetamines was not happening for her.

Seb went to the bar to get another round in, she adored him, he was such a sweetheart. Shame she had never fancied him; he would be a dream to link up with, but there was a brotherly chemistry between them, always had been; she couldn’t imagine ripping his clothes off and leaping on him... yuk! - she would leave those thoughts to Helen.

He was very excited about this campaign; it was something he could get his teeth into. The air of mystery was fun; he felt he was getting one up on the ad men, who normally prostituted his work. The agency had asked him to take a video camera with him when they did the stills in Italy. They wanted very basic amateurish film footage of Franco and the girl, as if taken by a holidaymaker. Footage of them hanging out at the beach, at a restaurant, a bar, looking relaxed and happy. They would then edit the crude footage into fifteen-second television and cinema advertisements, which would join the poster and radio ads.

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Seb was stepping into another side of film, which energized him. He also needed to get out of London for a while, away from the likes of David. He couldn’t stop thinking about him and the humiliation of running around like an eejit having his picture taken.... what a berk!

He returned with drinks, to find Tara scrolling through her ringtones. Playing through each one until she ended up frustrated, choosing a simple ‘ring—ring, ring—ring’ old-fashioned land line.

“The whole bloody idea, babe, is that you have an original tone, so that you don’t have to jump to look for your phone, every time you hear a phone ring, ta see if it’s yours,” he laughed.

“But they are all so bloody annoying, I want a low soft sound that doesn’t do my eardrums in,” she moaned.

“At least we all know the laughing demented frog is you when it goes off; no one else would have such a crappy one,” he laughed, promising to load a new one off the web for her, “what about a bit of the deep throated mister Barry White, letting you know he’s hanging on just for you?”

While she fiddled with her phone, reinstating the frog, Seb leaned back into the sofa, surveying the bar. He didn’t feel comfortable in sloaney places. The posh, spoiled young kids annoyed him with their street ignorance and stuffy self-importance. He saw them as dim-witted inbreds. They were spawned from a heritage of self-obsessed families that gave themselves titles and double-barrelled names in an effort to sound important, archaic crap; they were depressingly out of touch with 221

real life. This wasn’t his normal hangout but hey, he could put up with the eejit toffs for one night.

He thought of David, for the hundredth time that day.

David was the most beautiful, mesmerizing creature he had ever seen. If he walked in now there would be a silence. His gothic dark looks were so damn sexy he would turn all heads, male and female. His power lay in his eyes; they penetrated deep into you, saw your darkest secrets, and willed you to bring them out to play. A dirty grin would creep onto his face, saying, “I know what you want and I’m gonna give it to you… when you’ve got the guts to admit it,” he would see your bad side and not flinch; on the contrary, he wanted you all the more for it.

Seb’s body shivered with anticipation. Fuck it, what the hell; why shouldn’t he give it a try; he would call him and go over for another… coffee.

Coming out of his daydream, back to reality, he looked over at Tara, her head bowed, still trying to find her bloody ringtone. His heart sank with recognition: was hers the face on the walls of David’s den?

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Chapter Twenty-Five To keep it private and simple, just the bare few of them would go to Italy for the Sporjakk job. Seb, his assistant Mark, the hair stylist Anton (whose skills included makeup, not that Franco needed either, swooned Anton), and Tara. The fewer people involved the better. The four travelled together on the midday BA flight from Heathrow, without much ado.

In contrast to Franco, who travelled later that afternoon; the persistent Maria insisted on being with him to send him off. At check-in, she managed to catch the eye and smile sweetly at paparazzi that had, per chance, been there to snap a departing holidaying royal. She enjoyed being in the limelight and draped herself elegantly on Franco’s shoulder at the mere sniff of a photographer, soaking up the opportunity to be the beautiful celebrity couple. The photographers took the bait and snapped away, glad of the opportunity to capture the normally private life of Franco Rossellini. The pictures would be worth a buck or two.

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Michael sniffed in annoyance at the fake act of union, chucking the bags noisily onto the check-in belt, he pushed past the posing Maria. When would this bird get the message... get lost. She didn’t care for Franco, she just wanted the fame and money, and she used her cunt to get it. When would the boss wake up? This was gonna put the spanner in the works with that Tara bird if he wasn’t careful.

Michael was dreading the journey back to London, he had to take her with him. Let’s hope she would sit in the back and shut up. Whenever they were alone, she would use the opportunity to sneakily question him on Franco’s movements. Sourcing info on him, everything from where he bought his shirts, to his favourite eating places, to whose was the blonde hair she had found on the backseat of the car? It had taught him to give the car a good clean every time he picked her up, for fear of her going into one.

It was all Franco could do to stop Maria coming with him on the trip. He had a tough time explaining that he was working and she couldn’t join him, she was not happy.

Sadly, the lunch meeting had not gone to plan, his cock had got the better of him; she had snuck back into his life. He had instantly regretted it, and felt bad about Tara.

He would give Maria a cooling-off period and finish it on his return from Italy, or he may even do it in a cowardly way over the phone while out there, that way she couldn’t jump on him and change his mind... wimp!

Poor old Michael now had to take her home. He chuckled to himself, he knew how Michael hated her, but being such a loyal soul he would never say it. He suspected that Michael approved of Tara; he had nicknamed her Lady T,

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whereas Maria Moodyknickers.

had

acquired

the

name

Miss

He couldn’t wait to board the plane and get moving, he was looking forward to being alone with Tara, he had some explaining to do about his disastrous love life.

Understandably she hadn’t been returning his calls since the lunch; luckily she wouldn’t see the pictures of Maria at the airport in the morning papers.

One final pose for the now large group of photographers (word had spread), a few autographs for some kids, a kiss for the now tearful Academy Award performing Maria, and a hug for Michael.

Whispering in his ear, “put the music up loud so she doesn’t get a chance to interrogate you, this time next week she’ll be history, I promise, Michael… I owe you,” he punched him playfully in the ribs.

“Yes, Boss,” grimaced Michael at the thought of his journey home. “’Ere, mind the shmutter,” pushing away his punches, proudly straightening up his new suit, “this cost me an arm an a leg this did!”

Laughing at his driver’s sartorial elegance, Franco swished through passport control, ready to board his flight, oblivious to the admiring glances and double-takes of passers-by.

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Chapter Twenty-Six David was incensed; they had all gone to Italy for the shoot, even his new plaything, Seb. His plans would be delayed, he would have to bide his time and wait for their return. He would play while they were gone.

He hated it when Tara was away, he missed spying on her, missed visiting her for sex at night. He loved the intimacy of watching her live her life - taking a bath, getting dressed, doing her makeup, cooking, cleaning, chatting on the phone, singing out of tune to the radio, shouting at the television, tossing and turning in her bed, hearing her snores as she slept, she would sometimes let out a heralding fart and he would crease up with laughter as she slept angelically through it.

He particularly loved the intimacy of watching her play with herself beneath the bedclothes. He had overheard her giggling with a friend, one night on the phone; her gynaecologist had told her that wanking was good for you,

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“.... he said everyone should do it at least once a day; it flushes blood around the body, works out the heart, burns up calories, releases feel-good hormones, doesn’t hurt anyone (as long as no one sees you of course!) and is free... now you tell me, how many things in life can do all that for you? ... anyway, it’s good to keep the juices flowing, you don’t want to dry up down there!”

Her friend was in hysterics, hoping that a little old lady from the telephone company wasn’t listening into their conversation.

He had copied her keys to come and go as he pleased. He liked to play with her belongings and check, re-angle the camera equipment. Sometimes, if she was away, he would sleep in her bed. He knew that the cleaning lady visited every Thursday morning to change the sheets and clean up the flat. On this occasion, the sheets would be clean by the time she returned, so he could get away with a sleepover.

He slipped the key in the lock and stepped quickly into her flat. It was late afternoon; she had left the day before for the airport, in a hurry, so the flat was a mess. He stood in the hallway, listening at the door to see if anyone had noticed him enter, nothing. He took in long deep breaths; the flat smelled of her; the closed windows had kept the air cocooned.

His cock began to fill with excitement as he took tentative steps into each of the rooms, pulling down the blinds as he went, cutting off the outside world, until he was free to roam her space, unseen in the semi darkness.

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He hit the play button on her CD player; it sprung to life with the music she had been listening to the night before she left - a compilation of slow soul funk tracks, ‘music to make luurve to’ she called it. He kept it low for fear of the neighbours hearing. He smiled, remembering that she loved music, she would say, “... but only if you can sing, dance, drive, chill or make luurve to it, the rest is shit.” Punk and big band jazz didn’t make the grade; she couldn’t do any of her list to them.

In the centre of her living room he leisurely stripped off, stacking his clothes into a neat pile on a plastic bin liner in the middle of the floor. Socks, Jeans, boxer shorts, everything, meticulously folded. The cold air exciting him as each part of his body became exposed.

He stood naked; turning to survey his body in one of the large mirrors that hung over the sofa. Even if he said it himself, he was a good-looking bastard. His body was in excellent shape, working out in the gym paid off. He watched his cock in the reflection, feeling it fill as it pumped itself up. Yep, he was getting horny.

He loved spreading his scent around her flat, marking out his territory like a dog. He would leisurely walk from room to room trailing fingers over her possessions, rubbing them against his skin. Today he started with the bathroom; he chose a hard bristled hairbrush and dragged it across his chest, down his stomach to his tight balls.

Stray strands of blonde hair tickled and teased nerve endings, bringing them to life. He increased the pressure, rubbing the brush harder and faster, until it was more than he could stand. Red welts streaked his body, his cock grew with pleasure.

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Returning the brush, he moved onto the glass shelf above the sink that housed her collection of perfume bottles, smelling each in turn, he played his game of choosing a favourite. A razor blade sat on the side of the bath, a stray pubic hair stuck to it; he tugged it free and he waved it under his nose, imagining he could still smell her; he then popped it in his mouth and played with it on his tongue, his cock rock hard now.

Next the kitchen, wherever possible he dragged his stiff cock along kitchen units and surfaces, it reminded him of when a child he would run down the street, noisily pulling a stick along the railings, enjoying the vibrations that ran up his arm, pissing off the grownups with the annoying clatter.

Soiling the surfaces where she prepared food, turned him on. Shame the cleaning lady was due. He had the urge to wank off right there and then, but wanted to wait until he got to the best bit, her bedroom.

Walking through the living room, pre-cum now oozing from his cock, he picked up sofa cushions and rubbed himself off on them, leaving trail marks. She would rest her head on these while watching the TV or chatting on the phone, he smiled.

Finally, he reached the bedroom. He opened her wardrobe and went through her clothes, touching the different materials, rubbing them across his face, imagining her wearing each piece. With two hands he scooped up a pile of lingerie from a drawer and buried his face in the soft silky mix of materials, taking in the clean fresh laundry smell. He then plunged his cock into his hands and began wanking the underwear backwards 229

and forwards along its length, bringing on the blissful climax... no, no mustn’t come yet, he squeezed the base of his cock, until feeling subsided.

He pulled back the bedspread and got into her bed; her body smell surrounded him; he pulled the sheet up over his head, closed his eyes and lay very still, breathing her in. As the heat rose from his body, her heady smell became more intoxicating; he turned onto his front and stretched flat out on his stomach; he buried his head in her pillow, and with slow rhythmic movements, fucked her mattress.

He rubbed backwards and forwards, chanting her name in rhythm with the creaking bed, building faster and faster until he came, crying out like an animal. Warm semen soaked her white sheet. As he lay exhausted, he smiled at the thought of the snooping cleaning lady tut-tutting at the stains.

Unable to move, he dozed for a while, then awoke and started the process again, and again, until he fell into a deep sleep. The next morning before he left he would ‘unset’ her mousetraps... that’ ll confuse the bitch.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ravello Village, Amalfi Coast, Sorrento Peninsula, Southern Italy The Italian trip was a success. They flew into Naples airport and within an hour were whisked away in private cars to Franco’s magnificent cliff top villa, nestled in a secluded spot just outside Ravello Village. At 1000 feet above sea level, its vast sun terraces boasted stunning views of a cobalt sea and a scattering of enchanting Amalfi Coast fishing villages. Franco had taste, understated, effortless, taste; his beautiful home was simple, comfortable and inviting.

He had a wonderful hard working old couple running the place for him, Mimi and Tony. Mimi was an excellent cook and housekeeper and Tony a gardener and handyman. They had been with the Rossellini family since Franco was born; he had poached them from his parents, five years ago when he first bought the villa.

They were getting old; his quieter lifestyle suited them 231

better than his parents’ busy multileveled Naples town house, with its endless stairways and visiting broods of siblings and grandchildren.

They obviously loved having Franco home and followed him around like lovesick puppies, chattering about his life in London; was he eating properly, when was he going to get married, filling him in on village gossip, how well his family were, etc. etc. Often Tony and he were found together gently arguing the toss over how English football was nowhere near as exciting as Italian and when was he going to come back to Italy and play with a proper team?

Mimi prepared fantastic meals; the house was always full of delicious aromas from her concoctions. By the end of their stay, Tara was sure she had put on half a stone.

Franco went for a run each morning so was able to eat to his heart’s content.

The first night they ate on the terrace at the back of the villa, under a vine-covered pergola, overlooking the wonderful gardens that Tony lovingly nurtured. They drank local wine and ate like kings. Whenever mellow and drunk enough, Tony could be persuaded to get out his old guitar and knock out a few tunes. The gang loved it and sang along. Mimi cuddled up under Franco’s arm as they rocked gently in time to the soulful melodies. She beamed proudly backwards and forwards between her adorable husband and surrogate son.

After a few more glasses of vino, Anton, his arms around a giggling Tara and bashful Mark, couldn’t resist bringing his soul diva persona to the party by scatting dramatic jazz harmonies across Tony’s vocals. Tony, astonished as first, actually quite liked the addition to his

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repertoire, it was in tune at least, he upped the tempo, making Anton work faster and faster to keep up. The team fell about laughing, clapping and cheering them along. It was a magical night of laughter wine and song under the stars... in spite of Franco and Tara ignoring each other.

Negotiations between them were frosty; he had not had the chance to explain Maria. Mainly her fault, she purposefully gave no opportunity for them to be alone.

The first day she, Seb and Mark spent location spotting, walking the grounds and local beaches, she was minimal icy polite to their genial host.

While they were out Anton sat in the kitchen with Mimi, learning how to cook pasta the right way, the Italian way.

He and she giggled away as Anton flicked through his phrase book and practiced pigeon Italian on her, making up for his lack of knowledge with oversized arm gestures and funny faces. He had always fancied the idea of taking an Italian lover… the best way to learn a language.

Initially, Tony kept his distance from the effervescent Anton, believing him to be a little loco. He nudged Mimi nervously as they stood at the front door welcoming the group from the airport. Anton jumped out of the car and skipped towards them, arms waving, shrieking with excitement. The sight of red flip flops, canary yellow trousers, and a billowing pink shirt wafting in their direction was a little too much for the old fashioned country boy, he scooted behind his tiny wife letting her be first in line for Anton’s cuddle attack. Later, when portering the suitcases to the relevant bedrooms he tuttutted to Mimi about the amount of hair and make-up paraphernalia belonging to Anton, a man!

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Mimi on the other hand adored him, she fell in love immediately with the bundle of fun and chided that a friend of Franco’s was always welcome; it was after all his house.

Anton did have one saving grace; he squealed with joy on discovering Tony’s collection of exotic plants and amazingly, seemed to know their tricky botanical names.

The plants were Tony’s pride and joy, he swelled with delight at Anton’s reaction to them, maybe this peacock of a man was ok after all.

As the first day of their three day trip was allocated for reconnaissance (the second for the stills shoot and the third for the film shoot), Franco excused himself after breakfast and drove the hour’s journey to Naples to visit his parents.

He always loved being home; he missed the sunny climate, the simpatico locals, the delicious food and the natural beauty of the dramatic Amalfi coastline. He promised himself only a few more seasons in the English game before he returned. Hopefully he would play out his final years with an Italian club, and then go into management – a suicidal job, few survived for long, but he thought he could hack the challenge. He also planned to invest in youth academies, the future of football - it was good to put something back into the game that had looked after him.

He drove a bashed up dirty old Jeep that had seen better days, it was poles apart from his smooth London Mercedes, but he didn’t need flash as he had nothing to prove - he preferred a low profile. The Jeep was perfect; with the roof rolled down he felt free, the wind blew the sooty London cobwebs away.

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He expertly manoeuvred the car through the narrow winding streets of Ravello, and sped perilously along the cliff hugging coastal roads and hairpin bends, that dropped off into ravines. His mind went back to Tara, she was a cool one. She had been very good at avoiding him these last twenty-four hours, managing to slink off to bed before he could grab her. Not for long, he would corner her later and explain all, win her around... once he had sorted Maria.

He had initially planned to let off the ‘divorce exocet’ when he returned to the London, but if he wanted to win Tara back he knew he would have to kick Maria into touch first. He would call her after lunch and sort it out.

As he accelerated through the winding streets he went through the conversation he would have with her... it was over, no going back, they had tried, it didn’t work, he didn’t love her, nor she him, they needed space, maybe six months down the line they could be friends - when she had met some other fool... shit! He hated emotional stuff, he knew she would put on the manipulative water works and make him feel like shit, but it had to be done. At least she couldn’t use sex as a weapon from here.

He would check with Michael to see if he had managed to get her home without incident from the airport. Maria was dangerous; she had a nasty way of inveigling her wishes on people, even on a wise old dog like Michael.

Meanwhile, he was off to see his beloved Madre and Padre. Picking up speed, he chased through the streets.

His hopes of going unnoticed were futile, everyone in Italy recognised the legendary face, and knew of his passion for his tatty old Jeep, he was famous for it, for his low-key chic. Franco Rossellini was home; word 235

spread the streets as he flew by, music loud and wheels spinning.

The wizened smiling faces of locals winked at each other as his tail lights disappeared, maybe he wasn’t renewing his English contract, maybe he was home for good... they lived in hope, they wanted their dream boy home.

He had a typically gastronomic lunch with his parents lasting four hours, telling them of his plans for the future, his new flat, and no, he was no nearer to getting married.

“Rilassati Mamma... chill, I will one day.”

His father liked the look of Maria, having seen them together in the press, but his mother tut-tutted that she had the look of a miserable monella, a spoiled brat. Did she have any hips? (let alone child bearing ones), could she cook? (she obviously hadn’t eaten a proper meal in her life). He giggled; no one would ever be good enough for his protective mamma. As he left he gave her a bear hug.

“Mamma, I am over thirty now, I am big enough to look after myself, stop your worrying,” towering over her, he kissed her on the forehead as if a little girl. She beamed up at him proudly and snuggled into his body.

Sitting in the car, he pulled out his phone and turned it on for the first time since Heathrow airport. It jumped abruptly into life with the announcement of messages. He had fifteen texts and six voicemails... here we go again!

He sighed... Maria!

But the first voicemail was from Ned; contract completed, he was signed up for another two years with

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all the provisos they wanted. Any problems with the Sporjakk shoot, let him know. Give his love to Mimi, bring back some of her cooking... arrivederci!

Typical, short and sweet Ned. If he ever married, he must remember to ask Ned to be best man, at least the speech would be minimal.

The rest of the voicemails and texts were from Maria, going on and on about how much she enjoyed the last few days and couldn’t wait to see him again. He had heard it all before, he deleted them.

Dialling her number he felt heavy, but it had to be done.

She answered on the first ring, obviously sitting by the phone.

“Hello darling!” she had read his name as the incoming call, “missing me?” no, actually… he thought.

“Err yeah, err, look Maria, we’ve got to talk… there is no nice way of saying this, we have been through this three times before, but this time it is for real, no going back, I’m going to stop seeing you…”

He heard her gasp.

“It’s not you, it’s me, I’m going to concentrate on my career like I told you… I need some space.”

She didn’t speak, he could hear vexed breathing.

“I’m sorry but it’s the way it’s going to be… I…” 237

“NO!” shouted Maria, “YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME, I WON’T LET YOU...”

She took a breath, calming herself, and then changed tack, almost whispering.

“We are good together, you know that Franco,” she softly pleaded.

He didn’t answer, it was pointless trying to explain, they should never have hooked up with each other in the first place, sex had been the only thing they had in common.

His silence upset her, she started to sob.

“I won’t let you, I won’t… I will kill you first, then that whore!”

“What whore?… Maria, stop, I’m really sorry, I know I’m being a coward telling you on the phone like this, but listen to me, please, it’s over, you know we are not right for each other, you deserve better, please listen to me.”

The sobbing constricted her throat; she strained to answer but the words wouldn’t come. Taking her silence as agreement, he continued.

“Call Michael, go to my flat and get your stuff, ALL of your stuff, I want it gone by the time I get back, ok? You got that? Maria… Maria?” She couldn’t speak.

“Maria... MARIA” No answer, only more sobbing, what was she doing, was she even listening? He was losing his patience with her.

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“Get your stuff before I get back, Maria,” he repeated loudly, “I’ve got to go, good bye.”

“Franco… FRANCOOOOOOOO,” her throat finally released, she managed to scream out loud.

“NOOOOOOOO FRANCOOOOOOOOO... ” He cut her dead as he snapped the phone shut. He was sorry; he felt like shit, but it was the only way with her.

He wondered if his mother was right, was she just a spoiled brat or was she unhinged, dangerously crazy?

His phone jumped angrily in his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts; she was calling back. He quickly turned it off and dropped it, like a hot coal, into the passenger seat.

He knew she would keep calling, venting out her anger, best let her get on with it. Thank God he was out of the country.

He turned on the engine, fiddled with the radio dial, yanked it up loud and deftly directed the Jeep into the rush-hour traffic, now home to sort out the lovely Tara Maria forgotten.

Maria called and called, only to be told that the subscriber she had called was not available, please leave a message. She did, many of them. Drinking a large glass of chardonnay between each one, getting more and more sordid in her language, in what she thought of him and his whore, until her slurring became inaudible. She then sent numerous vulgar text messages, building in their crudeness and inaccuracy, getting herself so worked up that she started to vomit her belly full of wine - she 239

hadn’t eaten in two days. She expertly put two fingers down her throat and finished the job.

As she sat, covered in bile, shivering on the cold bathroom floor, she hatched a plan... how dare he do this to me, he and his bitch will pay. With one hand on the toilet cistern and the other on the sink, she hauled herself up off the slippery floor... this would make a good picture for the tabloids, she sneered, spitting the remains of sick into the sink.

Wet acidic fingers scrolled her phonebook in search of Michael’s number.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight Tara was exhausted; they had walked all day searching out suitable places for filming. There were too many stunning settings to choose from; what a great place this was; she wouldn’t mind having a home here... dream on, honey, dream on!

The fresh air had made her ravenous; back at the house Mimi was preparing another mouth-watering dinner for them, the delicious smells pulled on her stomach, she wanted to steal Mimi away and bring her home. The luxury of a beautifully cooked meal waiting for you when you got home from the office would be heaven... I need a wife!

Seb was happy with the day’s work, he took a shower and, whilst waiting for supper, sat around the coffee table in the living room with Mark, planning the kit needed for the next day’s shoot. Both were nursing a well-earned cold beer, brought to them by Anton, the new house 241

maid. He was fussing around his flock running from kitchen to living room, looking after everyone, loving his new role of ‘Italiano translator extraordinaire’ and ‘wifey numero two’.

Tara looked in on Seb and Mark, they were happy. She then poked her nose into the kitchen to tell Mimi she was a saint, the food smelled great. They wouldn’t eat for another hour as they were waiting for Franco to return, so Tara took the chance to steal a large glass of local wine and sneak upstairs to wallow in a well-earned bath.

Anton stood on a kitchen chair to act out the word ‘saint’ for Mimi... she and Tony had a fit of the giggles trying to work out what the hell he was saying.

Tara could hear the commotion in the kitchen as she climbed the stairs, Anton was wasted in hairdressing, he should be on stage. She checked her watch; she had an hour before his lordship came home, plenty of time for a lazy bath. Skipping along the corridor to her room she checked out the family photographs and seascapes that adorned the walls. He was a funny one, you wouldn’t know that he had anything to do with football, no items of memorabilia adorned the walls and cabinets of his villa, nor his London penthouse, but he had only just moved in there. No cups, pictures, awards, signed shirts, medals, nothing remotely footballer’ish... very strange.

She was looking forward to seeing him. She had questions, about the house, the land, his family. How could he have this piece of paradise and live in London?

What a contrast, if it were hers she wouldn’t be able to leave.

Her first question would be who the hell that moody bird was in the restaurant. She recognised the woman’s face

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from the dentist’s waiting room magazine, obviously a long term girlfriend... bloody cheek; he could at least have been honest and told me. But, she mused, at what point in their short acquaintance would have been a suitable moment to announce it? None, to give him his due, they were either shouting at each other or eating each other. She hadn’t asked him about his private life, and likewise he hadn’t asked her.

It smacked of the old ‘Ed and the other woman’ saga. She should leave well alone, it didn’t suit her to share. Even though the miserable bird looked like a self-obsessed bitch, the guilt of being out of bounds with another woman’s man still hankered... why for gawd’s sake? bet she wouldn’t give a second thought if it was the other way around.

The elegant vintage bathtub sat plumb in the middle of the room on its four, very rusty, clawed feet. As she ran the water she checked under its belly, wondering if they were strong enough to withstand her weight. She would take the risk.

Going for the full lady of leisure effect, she added lashings of bubble bath to the steaming hot water. She lit candles dotted around the room, drew the curtains, and locked the door. She stood sipping her wine, surveying the scene; she was going to enjoy this... perfect!

She stepped slowly into the boiling water, letting her body acclimatize... ouch, ouch! It was as hot as she could take, but worth it, the hotter now, the longer she could stay before getting cold.

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Once her body was fully immersed, she rested her head, dizzy from wine and heat, back against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. Perspiration trickled down her forehead, she let out a deep sigh.... this is the life.

As she dozed in and out of consciousness, her thoughts meandered. Would they be able to recapture the magic of the first shoot? What should she wear to supper? Had she paid her car tax? Did those new jeans make her arse look big? Why had she been waking up exhausted and covered in sweat, was it early menopause? Funny how many dodgy words started with men, menace, mental, menstruate... Damn! she forgot to get her legs waxed, had she packed a razor? They now knew each other intimately; how could they recreate the electric chemistry that came with newness, the unknown, the wondering how each other tasted, felt, the teasing foreplay... shit!

She slid upright in the bath, panic setting in... there’s no way this can work, especially with us ignoring each other.

And, why were they ignoring each other? Who the hell was she to complain about his bird, she had been with Ed the Head! Surely it was too early in the relationship for either to expect commitment... urrgh! She was now making excuses... where is he? She had the urge to talk to him, hold him, ignore the paranoid game-playing shit.

She suddenly remembered paying for the car tax online, the connection kept crashing mid payment, driving her to distraction.

Taking a sip of wine she relaxed back into the tub, her mind continued chasing through ten thoughts at once.

Franco pulled the car up outside the villa, glad to finally stop driving; being shaken around in the open wind for

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an hour took a toll on his body. He stepped out of the car and stood stretching for a moment, the non-existent suspension played havoc on his back.

He sneaked in the back door to the kitchen, and was met by the sight of Mimi having her hair coiffured by the flamboyant Anton, and a nervous Tony sitting at the fireplace, pretending to read the newspaper. Mimi looked beautiful and was thoroughly enjoying the special treatment. Anton was creating one of his masterpieces on her; she looked years younger and very elegant. Franco laughed with pleasure.

“Mimi, you look great… Tony, watch out, the boys will steal her from you, she is so pretty, eh?” he reached over and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

“What time are we eating Mimi? Have I got time for a quick shower? Mmmmm.... smells good,” Franco picked up a cooking spoon and naughtily tasted some sauce from the pot on the hob.

“Mmmmm! Mimi it tastes great,” he licked his lips.

Mimi blushed with pride as Anton fussed around a tendril of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Yep, time for a quick shower,” said Anton, “food will be ready in half an hour; chef is just having her hair done.

Seb and Mark are working and Tara’s in the bath. Do you want to take a beer up with you? Here...” Anton seemed to have taken over the kitchen, he handed Franco him a beer, and got back to the job in hand. Franco was surplus to requirements.

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“Ok, see you in half an hour,” he gave Tony a consolatory pat on the shoulder as he walked through to the living room, knocking back a gulp of the much needed cold beer.

Seb and Mark were busy drawing up layouts and timings for the shoot, he smiled at them and carried on up the stairs to track down Tara... now, where is she, we have some unfinished business.

She had a guest suite at the far end of the house; he sneaked along the corridor and into her bedroom, closing the door behind him. Her clothes were scattered over the bed and floor; makeup, a hairbrush, and perfume were spread across the dressing table. It gave him a warm, satisfying feeling to see her belongings in his home, even if she was a tad messy.

The smell of bubble bath wafted from the bathroom. He couldn’t hear anything, maybe she was dozing in the water. Perfect, a captive audience, he would say his piece, sort out the nonsense and then spend the night making love to her.

Quietly, he tried the door handle, it was locked, the little vixen was expecting him. The lock was no deterrent, a wiggle here, a shuffle there and the old worn catch slipped silently under his touch. He pushed the door ajar and leaned against the doorframe to survey the scene.

The steam hit him with a blast... good god it’s hot in here! He waited as the mist cleared, the curtains were drawn and the room aglow with sweet smelling candles he had entered a fairy grotto.

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Tara was sleeping in the water, the bath full; her head just peeked out over the suds. Bubbles were everywhere, brimming to the floor. A strategically placed martini table held a glass of wine, bubbles wrapped its stem. He chuckled and knocked back a slug of beer. She looked completely relaxed, a little pink and sweaty in the face, but relaxed.

He took off his shoes and stepped barefoot into the grotto, closing the door behind him. He tip-toed around the bath looking at her from every angle, trying not to disturb her - she didn’t move. He set the beer bottle onto the table and using both hands, scooped back the bubbles on the surface of the water, revealing her naked body below... shit, she’s beautiful. It was all he could do to put his hand in the water and touch her.

The heat began to get to him, beads of sweat dotted his brow, he pulled his sweatshirt up over his head and tossed it aside. He stood over her, half wishing she would wake and half wishing he could keep the moment forever, she was perfect, an angel.

Following a trickle of perspiration that ran down her cheek, he reached in to her face and gently wiped the droplet away. The warmth of her skin sent a memory shudder through his body - he couldn’t resist, he leaned in and softly butterfly kissed her top lip.

With the speed of a minx, she brought two strong arms up around his neck and pulled him head first down into the hot soapy water. He lost his balance and fell with a yelp! Arms flailing, water and bubbles flying everywhere. He managed to pull himself up, only to have 247

his head unceremoniously pushed down again, her laughter ringing in his ears.

Wrenching her locked hands free from his neck, he scrambled up out of the water, spluttering and choking for air, drenched from head to foot. The floor was swamped. Tara couldn’t stop laughing.

“Serves you right, you pervert! How the hell did you get in here, the door was locked? You can count that as payback for having a girlfriend and not telling me about it.”

She couldn’t stop laughing at the sight of him; he looked like a drowned rat. There was no way she could have slept through all his shenanigans; he made enough noise picking the lock to wake the dead... urrgh! he has such a sexy body!

He fell back against the wall and slid down with a thump to the floor. Holding his head in his hands, he spluttered bubbles and water, getting his breath back. She managed to control her giggles, but when he peered up at her through waterlogged hair with wounded puppy dog eyes, it set her off again, mister uber superstar looked unusually dishevelled.

He opened his mouth to bellow at her but instead started to choke. She grabbed his beer and reached out to pass it to him, thinking a drink may calm his throat, but she was too far away. She stood up in the bath and leaned further towards him, laughing all the while, bubbles and water cascading down her body.

She had stood up too quickly, the mixture of heat and wine with the blood rush making her giddy. Her legs

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gave way; she lost her balance and toppled back into the tub with an ungainly whoosh. He managed to catch the beer just as she dropped it.

Arms and legs akimbo, she slid down the bath, her head went under one end, forcing her feet out the other, now it was his turn to laugh. He jumped up and pulled her to her feet, holding her tight against his chest as she stood spluttering in the water. They clung to each other giggling, the floor soaked, their bodies wet, as she caught her breath.

In the distance, Franco could hear a shout and the commotion of footsteps running in their direction. The bathroom door swung open to a breathless Seb as he came to an abrupt halt.

“Ooops! sorry, mate... thought we had a flood on our hands.”

Seb hadn’t expected to find the two of them near naked, wrapped around each other, it was a shock, he looked away embarrassed.

“You’ve got water coming through the ceiling in the living room; it seems to be coming from here.”

He looked to the floor and saw why. Water and bubbles were everywhere.

“What the hell have you two been doing?”

Tara flushed pink with embarrassment and attempted to reach for a towel, wriggling free of Franco’s arms, but he tightened his grip - she was going nowhere. She squealed as she tried to hide behind Franco’s body.

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Seb found himself staring at Franco’s broad shoulders; his body was in perfect shape. He felt a sudden pang for David. Shit, there was a beautiful naked woman in front of him, and he was ogling the bloke! Jeysus, why couldn’t he be bloody normal? Disgust crept over him; would he ever rid himself of this shame? He turned away, leaving them to sort it out.

“It’s ok, Seb, thanks, we’ll sort it,” Franco shouted after him, sensing his annoyance, “can you tell Mimi to start supper without us, we’ll be down later!” he wondered if Seb had feelings for Tara, was he jealous?

Tara wriggled trying to get free.

“Ohmigod, how embarrassing! What did you tell him that for? We’ll tidy up and go down for supper now…”

“No, we won’t, we’ve got some talking to do, you have been avoiding me long enough. I’m not gonna let you go till you promise to sit back in that bath and listen to me.”

She looked up at him, realizing he was serious.

“Or you can stand here catching your death of cold.”

She shivered; he was right, she was getting cold, “Ok, ok, but be quick, I’m starving,” she slid down into the welcoming warm water, lay back and stretched out, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself. She couldn’t help smiling, he was adorable.

Franco, satisfied that she would remain still, turned on the taps to refill her bath. He grabbed some towels and started to dry himself off as he explained the disastrous

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Maria affair. Pulling off his wet jeans, wearing no underwear, he bent to dry his legs, seemingly unaware of the stir his nakedness was causing. Finding it hard to concentrate she sipped on her wine and feigned non interest.

“She keeps sending me texts and leaving crazy messages; she won’t believe that we’re over… we only went out with each other for a few months…”

He purposefully took a little time drying between his legs; his eyes flicked over at her, to see if it was having the desired effect. He knew he had a good body, and was not ashamed to parade it. Tara, turning pink, guzzled her wine a little too fervently... it had the desired effect.

“That day I saw you guys in the restaurant, I had agreed to meet with her to talk it through and remain friends. It was her idea to meet in that particular restaurant on that particular day; if I didn’t know better, I would have said that she planned you being there.”

He stood facing her, legs apart, threw one end of the towel over his shoulder and grabbed it at his waist, he pulled it see-saw, backwards and forwards across his back, taking his time. She tried hard not to look at his cock, which was directly in her eye line and getting larger by the minute, she stared resolutely ahead, giving the impression that she was concentrating hard on all he was saying about his boring ex-girlfriend. Well, at least she was an ex; that was a positive. ... urrrgh! I wish he wouldn’t stand there like that... it was turning her on. Her fingers, hidden beneath bubbles, furtively crawled across the top of her thigh and down 251

between her legs. The bath now full, he turned off the taps.

“I tried talking with her but she was off on one, kept going on about babies and my English whore... I assume that’s you? God knows how she found out about you... anyway, when I saw you and your friends I got her out of there fast, she was in a foul mood. I know I should have told you I had baggage, but thought I could sort it without you knowing... what a mess!”

Her eyes were on his, intently listening, not a ripple in the water, bubbles blanketing the surface, if only he knew what she was doing, he was so bloody gorgeous.

“Anyway, today I called her and told her to collect her things from my flat before I got back, hopefully that should be the end of it.”

He put down the towel and took a step nearer to the bath, casually picking up his beer. His hard cock waved leisurely in front of her face. With great difficulty she kept her eyes on his, ignoring it.

“And what did she say to that, whatever her name is?” she asked.

He walked around the bath, picked up a pile of towels, and scattered them around the floor to soak up the worst of the water. He would probably have to repaint the living room ceiling, but it had been worth it.

“Maria, her name is Maria.”

He was busy about his work, so didn’t notice her slide a hand to her breast.

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“She wasn’t impressed, started to cry, which is the norm for her. Anyway, I didn’t hang on long enough to hear much, except that she was going to kill me.”

He looked thoughtful for a second, wondering if he should take her threat seriously... nah, she’s just a spoilt drama queen, she doesn’t have it in her to kill anyone… does she?

He finished laying the towels and stood in front of her again, taking a final swig of beer.

“Anyway, it’s all over now, so will you start talking to me, am I forgiven?”

He stood over the bath, looking down on her, smiling. “... and stop playing with yourself, woman!”

Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he turned her face towards him; she was at the perfect height to take him in her mouth. “... suck on this instead.”

It happened so quickly, so easily that she found herself obeying.

They didn’t make it down to supper.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine It had been an early rise that morning. Even earlier for Franco, as Tara had chucked him out of her room at 5 am, trying to have some semblance of decency when they all rose at 6 am to the wonderful smell of Mimi’s cooked breakfast. Having missed dinner the night before, Tara was starving.

They had played with each other all night, talking, making love, dozing, talking, making love, dozing a little more. When she chucked him out at 5 am, he stood grumbling at the doorway, trying to gain a reprieve. What was wrong with the English, always worried about appearances; so what if they had been shagging all night; who cared? Why try and pretend at breakfast that they hardly knew each other? Anal or what, far too worried about protocol, too politically correct… in denial of having a good time… was it against the law or something? No, it was just good manners, she chided.

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He finally gave up and ran naked down the corridor to his own room, hoping not to bump into the lovely Mimi. As he slipped into the unwelcoming sheets of his cold bed, he decided that he was going to have to teach this English bird a thing or two about living, give her the Italian touch… all in good time.

The day’s shoot was a success; Tara’s fears were unfounded. Franco was brilliant; he took to his part like a duck to water, thoroughly enjoying it. Anton gave him a light touch of makeup and kept Tara’s hair looking lush and sexy, then busied himself helping out with directing, styling and general all round gofer.

They shot seven sets of pictures in various settings, far more than they needed, but what the heck, it was going so well. Four scenes in the morning and three in the afternoon, with a lazy lunch hour in the middle. They tucked into Mimi’s scrumptious picnic that Tony delivered with blankets, cushions and bottles of local wine.

Lying out in the sunshine, they teased the multi-talented Anton about his new career as a film director. He was in his element, with his dramatic arm waving and snappy Alfred Hitchcock directives, he kept them moving at a pace and in high spirits. Each time a shot was in the bag, he rushed around issuing cuddles and congratulations; his excitement contagious, even Tony caught the bug.

Tony had only intended on delivering the picnic and leaving them to it, tut tutting that they were all crazy, but curiosity getting the better of him, he ended being seconded as Anton’s side kick.

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Anton gave him three important responsibilities: leaf management (balancing precariously on a step ladder scattering leaves over the romantic couple), shrub control (muscling obtrusive branches out of shot, while Anton regaled on his strength) and wind direction (wafting large sheets of cardboard over Tara’s tresses). He thoroughly enjoyed himself; it was an eye opener to see the amount of work that went on behind the scenes of a photo shoot.

He also enjoyed seeing the playful side of Franco, either Franco was a good actor or this girl was good for him. He suspected that they were lovers; he had spotted Franco sneaking out of her bedroom that morning. Could she be ‘the one’ for the boy? Franco didn’t bring lady friends to Ravello, it was his private place... she must be special, ah... young love, he thought wistfully.

His gruff, huffing, macho exterior was a smokescreen, at heart he was a cheeky old romantic. He smiled as he remembered courting Mimi nearly half a century ago; she was quite a catch, the prettiest girl in the village. It was love at first sight, he hadn’t ever wanted anyone else, nor had she, two peas in a pod. Sadly, nowadays marriage came and went with ease, people traded-in partners more frequently than their cars; too many choices and not enough staying power.

“Tony, dahling… more leaves, baby, more leaves…”

An arm waving Anton pulled him out of his daydream, he cringed wishing the Englishman wouldn’t call him ‘dahling’, it would be a nightmare if his card playing cronies from the village heard, ruthless teasing would go on for months. Hastily he gathered leaves to throw over the couple.

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Seb thanked him as he snapped away. He was happy, the pictures were nigh on perfect, the crew in high spirits, the weather had held and now at the end of the day the best light had come, bathing the couple in a golden glow - he held his breath as he worked for fear of losing the moment.

It was the last take; an orange blaze lit the sky. Tara and Franco had played, punched, laughed and held each other close all day for the camera, most models would have hated the sight of each other by now, but not these two, they had an infectious chemistry. It was easy, Tara would whisper something cheeky, Franco would laugh, and bingo, Seb would capture the warmth in their body language.

“Last roll of film, boys and girls,” announced Seb, “Anton, whadayathink? What next? We’ve tried most every possible angle… and got through all the clothes.”

“Why not topless,” joked Anton, “... they can airbrush the bloody logo on her back like a tattoo.”

Anton’s creativity was flowing, he was having fun, he didn’t expect to be taken seriously.

“Yeah, let’s do it...” Seb smiled, “Franco, remember how you were when I walked in on you last night? Position yourselves in the same way... top half only, obviously!”

Seb liked the idea more and more, Anton had hit the nail on the head; the tattoo was a great idea, they could download it onto the shots in the studio.

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“What does the best-dressed man wear?… a woman, of course,” Seb beamed.

Franco looked at him, trying to remember what he was talking about.

“Oh no, no…” Tara started to walk backwards away from the mischievous looking Franco.

“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” too late, Franco was unzipping his sport top, peeling it off his shoulders seductively, walking towards her, a big grin on his face.

“Franco, no, this is harassment, don’t you dare,” she started to run.

Franco barked orders in Italian at Tony and rugby tackled the fast escaping Tara. Tony scurried off, disappearing behind an old garden shed.

“Gotcha,” he laughed, as they toppled to the floor. Anton was screaming with delight.

He held her tight and whispered close into her ear.

“This is to pay you back for chucking me out of your bed this morning, you and your old fashioned English scruples. I’m gonna show you how to live a little, Italian style…”

He yanked her up off the ground, whisked off her top, pinged the hook of her bra and slid it off her shoulders.

He wrapped his arms tight around her, feeling her warm soft breasts against his bare chest. The boys were in hysterics. Mark, gobsmacked, dropped the light reflector;

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Seb barely managed to focus the camera and Anton ran in circles around the couple squealing with delight.

“Oh Franco, you’re such a naughty boy… I was only joking… Tara dahling, your hair, let me do your hair, it’s a mess…Oh my gawd!”

A loud dragging noise came from behind the shed, Anton turned to see what the commotion was. A determined Tony appeared, heaving a long black water hose behind him.

“What the hell’s that, Tony?” Anton’s quizzical face was a picture. “Oh… you can’t be serious, oh no... think of her hair,” he shuddered.

Seb couldn’t believe it; Franco was going the whole hog.

“Ok, Tony, turn the water on, drown them in it. This is the wet-look version,” Seb bellowed, thriving on the spontaneity.

Tony did as he was told and showered the couple in the cold, powerful water. The shots were great. Tara, as predicted her hair a mess, squirreled her head under Franco’s chin, trying to get out of the firing line.

“Stop, Tony, stop!” she screamed, shivering in the laughing Franco’s arms.

Tony dutifully turned off the hose, leaving them dripping with water, holding onto each other for dear life. Seb clicked away as they swayed, laughing, getting their breath back.

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“I’m gonna kill you,” she whispered teasingly into his ear, enjoying the feel of him against her skin, her nipples hard and excited from the cold water.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispered back in the same teasing voice.

“What?”

“Seriously, I’m gonna marry you, Miss English… and you’re gonna laugh like this every day for the rest of your life…”

He held her face up to his and kissed her wet forehead, his eyes serious... he meant it.

Seb clicked away, their mood had changed, he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was a lovely shot of Franco’s big hands engulfing her wet face, messing up her tousled hair even more. Anton was past caring.

Tara reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, putting her lips onto his, open-mouthed, he responded; they kissed long and deep, oblivious to the slightly embarrassed crew. The only sound was from the camera, clicking away until it finally ran out of film. Seb let it hang down by his side, looking a little lost; the magical day was over.

Franco and Tara eventually stopped, gathered up their clothes and began to help the boys pack up. Tara opened her mouth to apologize but Franco put his arm up to stop her.

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“We are in Italy now baby, relax, kissing is good, do as the Italians do… eh Tony?” he giggled, slapping Tony on the backside as he bent over to pick up a camera box.

“Yes boss, but... ” he turned nervously to eye Anton, “...

Mister Anton, you no kissy me, ok?” his arm extended as if blocking any advances.

Unable to resist a tease, Anton immediately chased him around the bushes screaming, “I want you... I want you...”

They walked home laughing. What a great day, Seb knew he had it in the can. The ad boys were going to be very happy; there were a lot of shots they could use. He couldn’t wait to get the film processed and check it out.

But now he had to prepare for tomorrow, the final day.

As they arrived back at the house, Mimi was standing nervously at the doorway waiting for them. Franco sensed her ill ease and picked up speed to get to her, letting go of Tara’s hand and running ahead of the others.

Maria stepped out from behind Mimi, into the doorway.

“Franco, dahling, I’ve missed you…come, give your baby a kiss.”

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Chapter Thirty

Sixteen years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England It had finally come, he knew her writing anywhere, his beautiful angel had at last replied. It was time to consummate their relationship, to bring their love into the open and plan a future. He had sent her a letter, pouring out his heart over eight painstakingly neat pages.

He hadn’t composed a letter in a long time, and never a love letter; it took him several attempts to unleash the right words. Crumpled sheets of paper filled the wastepaper basket at his feet. He was using the smart leather-bound writing set that his mother had given him Wedgwood-blue paper, matching envelopes, a fountain pen and bottled royal blue ink. She had pleaded with him to write home more often, like he used to, she missed his cheeky anecdotes and childlike declarations of love for her. As she gave him the gift she gently cuffed his shoulder, chiding that he was all grown up, probably far

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too busy having fun to write to his boring old mother... but she adored him anyway.

He couldn’t tell her that it pained him to write, to lie, to pretend all was fine at school. Since he had become the ‘special one’ he was soiled. He feared that his tell-tale shame would seep through the words, that his mother would read between the lines and know the truth. That disgust would replace love and she would abandon him.

Tara knew the truth and still loved him regardless; he thanked the Devil for the gift of his angel.

Each morning after breakfast he ran to the common room to check if he had mail. He would slink into the back of the room joining the rest of the boys, waiting in anticipation for a sign of love from the outside world, that they weren’t forgotten. The infamously callous sixth former, Charlie Hemmings, was on post duty. He loved his job; he would saunter lazily into the room carrying the day’s post, enjoying the power he had over the pathetic expectant faces peering up at him.

Hemmings would bark out the surname of each addressee and search the room for the relevant excited waving hand, then chuck the letter across the room in the boy’s general direction, caring less whether it was caught it or not, it was more fun if he made it difficult to catch.

David rarely received letters so didn’t normally bother going to ‘post’, but since writing to Tara he had been every day, except Sunday, sitting at the back of the room quietly waiting. For three weeks, nothing.

“HOWARD,” Hemmings bellowed.

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“Good God, Howard, someone has actually written to you, must be a death in the family... if you in fact have family, Howard... my guess is you were dog spawned... your mother a rabic hound... or perhaps you’re a bastard orphan, Howard, that nobody wants?”

Hemmings was a natural bully, cruel comments came easily to him, he inherited it from his tyrannical father, sadly the trait infected generations of males in his privileged family tree – setting him up nicely for a life of loneliness, once he left the cosseted confines of boarding school the real world had no time for hot aired bullies.

David ran from the back of the room, unable to hide his joy. Laughing, Hemmings tossed the letter high over the heads of the boys, trying to make it an impossible catch, but David hurled himself high and snatched it out of the air with ease. The letter safely in his grasp he charged out of the room, through the courtyard, along corridors, up staircases until he reached the solace of his dormitory.

Hemmings wondered why Howard wasn’t on the cricket team.

Panting, leaning against the closed door, he stared down at the precious envelope; her bold handwriting scrawled confidently across it, his heart leaped at the sight of his name written in her hand. He smelled the paper for her scent, there was none.

Taking care not to tear, he gently eased open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper. With a running jump and squeal of excitement he leaped onto the bed, plumped up his pillow and stretched flat out.

Crossing his ankles, he nestled into the mattress, ready to savour the words of his angel.

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Chapter Thirty-One

Ravello Village, Amalfi Coast “Who the fuck does she think she is, Lady Muck?

Common as... more like,” a petulant Anton stage whispered into Tara’s ear.

The surprise arrival of Maria put a dampener on proceedings, a dark cloud descended over the villa.

Franco couldn’t believe her cheek in turning up uninvited and how the hell did she know where to find him?

Michael must have given her the address; he would kill him when he got hold of him... fuck it! Tara’s face was thunder.

Maria acted as if everything was fine between them, that they were the perfect couple. She introduced herself around the group, eagerly shaking hands and beaming false smiles. Anton’s neat little dip-curtsy as he took her hand went ignored.

“Franco has told me so much about you all, I am so happy to finally meet you,” she gushed, lying through her teeth.

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She had arrived twenty minutes earlier, thrusting gifts of food and wine into the arms of a bemused Mimi.

Wittering on, ten to the dozen that she was Franco’s fiancée and that she had come to help with the shoot. Oh dear, hadn’t Franco told her, men, honestly they were useless! Mimi was of course courteous to the unexpected guest, but she didn’t trust her one little bit.

After the initial hello’s, the gang, sensing Franco’s anger, hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Seb broke the ice: “Mimi, my little angel, if it’s ok wit you, I’m goin ta have a quick shower before we eat. I’m starvin, could eat the ass out of a low-flying duck.”

Mimi, grateful for the distraction, said that supper would be ready in half an hour and dragged the gob smacked Tony off to the kitchen; he couldn’t take his eyes off the uber glamorous Maria. Anton and Mark followed them, trying to explain the low-flying duck comment.

Tara, finding herself alone in the hallway with the beautiful couple, mumbled something about feeling dirty, needing a shower and shot up the stairs faster than a rabbit at a dog track. Passing Franco’s bedroom she spotted Maria’s smart little Vuitton case perched territorially on his bed... the bastard, he lied! Fists clenched with anger, she stomped down the corridor and slammed her door shut with an almighty crash.

Wincing at the noise, knowing exactly where it came from, Franco stood facing Maria.

“What the hell are you doing here, Maria? How did you find this place?” he shouted, whatever feelings he may have had for her, fast turning to hate.

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“Dahling,” she purred, “that’s no way to treat your baby.”

“You sounded so stressed my baby,” she seduced, lowering her voice, “I thought I’d come over and give you some of my special lovin,” stressing the word ‘special’, she stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. He backed away. The smell of her cloying perfume heavy between them.

“Hey Franco, relax, your baby is here now,” she snuggled up against him; painted talons trailed the back of his neck, making his skin crawl. He recoiled in disgust, anxiously checking the hallway, there’s no way he needed Tara to see this little act of affection.

“Don’t,” he shouted, yanking her arm away from his neck, “you’re not my baby Maria, I want you out of here now,” she stared back at him, stunned, “you know it’s over between us; I can’t believe you have the cheek to just turn up.”

Pushing her away he went to the front door to see if she had a car with her, but the driveway was empty, he pulled out his phone.

“I’m calling you a taxi now Maria, I’m not playing your games, it’s over… capice?”

It was time for her academy award performance. Falling in a near faint she grabbed the banister, slumped to the bottom of the staircase and started to howl. The sound of heaving sobs filled the house. She knew full well that he couldn’t cope with tears; she had worn waterproof mascara in anticipation.

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“Come on now, Maria, stop this,” he knew she was laying it on, but it still made him feel shitty.

“It’s ok,” he sighed, pulling her up and walking her into the living room, “look I’m sorry, I lost my cool, it was just a shock to find you here.”

He sat her on the sofa and got a large brandy from the drinks cabinet. He needed to calm her down and get her out of there, pronto. Tara would be going bananas.

“Oh Franco, I can’t help it, I love you so much, I can’t live without you, please don’t ask me to leave... please... please,” she begged, not letting him get a word in. He handed her the brandy.

He was a sucker for tears; they always got to him, making him feel guilty, innocent or not. Dragging his hands nervously through his hair, he stood watching her, curled up on the sofa sipping the drink... shit, why couldn’t women be like football? He understood football, the rules were simple, you knew your position, had a game plan and the ref sorted out any rumpus.

He couldn’t fathom females, one minute sex goddesses, the next crying babies, the next vindictive vixens. No instruction manuals, no time on the bench, no red card, just a full-on penalty shootout followed by sudden death his normally. How was he going to sort this one out?

Tara would be shitting bricks by now. He had to get rid of Maria, pronto!

Mimi poked her head around the door from the kitchen taking in the scene. She softly asked, “everything ok, Franco?” he shrugged his shoulders, helpless, he needed her help.

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“Let’s take her upstairs to rest before supper, Franco,” she took the brandy out of Maria’s clutches and gestured for Franco to help lift her - taking no nonsense.

Holding the staggering Maria between them, they manoeuvred up the staircase to the landing. With surprising control her body lurched off in the direction of Franco’s bedroom, which was not what he had in mind, but he said nothing, not wanting to break the peace... oh look, her bag is here already, what a surprise!

Maria fell to the bed, pushing the suitcase aside, a large brown envelope that had been perched on top slid to the floor. Franco bent to pick it up.

“Oh, Michael asked me to give you that, it seemed urgent, so...”

“You saw Michael,” he shouted, his anger resurfacing. A cursory glance from Mimi stopped him in his tracks, “err... we’ll talk later, get some rest.”

He took the envelope and left the room. As Mimi pulled the door shut behind them, he gave her a kiss on the head as a thank you. She waited until they were halfway down the staircase before she wagged a warning finger at his chest.

“You look after yourself with that one Franco, she’s trouble, I can smell it. Tara’s a good’un, you hang onto her. Tony told me you have a flame burning, and if he likes her, she must be special,” she stabbed a finger into his chest, “... be warned!”

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It was not normally her place to meddle in Franco’s private affairs, but Maria was dangerous. She was the devious calculating type that would pull out all the stops to get a moneyed ring on her finger. Tony would have a fit if he knew she was interfering, but in her opinion men didn’t spot users until it was too late, their egos generally got in the way, especially if they had a pretty face and lifted their petticoats. Having said her piece, she scurried off to the kitchen before a stunned Franco could say a word.

He smiled to himself, it would have taken a lot for Mimi to be so outspoken, he didn’t mind, in fact it was reassuring to hear that the old couple approved of Tara. It reminded him of one of his mother’s chants; the most important decision a man makes is his choice of bride - a woman can make or break him.

The house quiet, he wandered into the living room, stood by the window and took a moment to enjoy the breathtaking view; the reason he chose Ravello. Nestled into a protective jagged rock face, the villa gazed out to sea, either side thunderous cliffs fell to the waters below, fishing boats bobbed precariously in and out of their coves. Soaring birds swept the sky beyond the terrace, chasing thermals over a sheet of cornflower blue that stretched out for miles to meet the coral skyline of a rousing sunset - it was show time in the heavens.

He loved this country; the colours, the air, the pace, he could breathe. The villa was his secret haven, to escape the hassles of London, sadly he had brought some with him on this trip, but it was worth it to be with Tara. She was gorgeous, perfect for him; he wanted to marry her, but how to convince her? Maria had done such a bloody

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good job of the ‘gloriously happy couple’ routine that he doubted Tara would trust him again.

Looking down, he had almost forgotten the envelope in his hand, it was probably a contract. ‘Urgent, Private & Confidential’ had been scribbled across the envelope in spidery writing. He forcefully tore it open, annoyed at Maria, and even more annoyed at being disturbed with work papers; he was supposed to be on bloody holiday.

Putting his hand into the envelope, he pulled out a stack of grainy black and white photographs, paper clipped together with a hand written note in the same spidery writing; TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT WHAT YOUR BITCH HAS BEEN UP TO! WHILE THE CATS AWAY THE MICE ... FUCK! “What the hell?”

Franco read and reread the note, not getting it. He then flicked through the pictures. They were an assortment of shots showing a naked man and woman in various positions, soft porn.

“What the...”

Some of his fans were a little over-zealous, but he hadn’t received dirty pictures before. Probably some nutter getting turned on by sharing ‘readers wives’ shots of him and the missus, or was it a prank from one of his team mates, they were always up to something.

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“Bloody hell, who the hell is this?” he peered closely at the prints, trying to see if he recognised the people in them.

He couldn’t make out faces, but it seemed to be the same man and woman in each shot. The pictures started innocently enough with the couple sitting on a sofa, drinks in hand, laughing. They went on to the girl leaning back against a window, her robe falling off her shoulder, the man standing in front, fondling her breasts, they were kissing passionately.

The next shots stepped up a gear, both were naked; the woman was on all fours in front of the sofa, being taken doggy style. The male knelt behind, holding her spread arse as he rocked it backwards and forwards over his cock, his face intense, studying the entry, he was about to climax.

More were taken on a bed; the man lay on his back with the woman’s head in his lap, his cock in her mouth as she tickled his balls. From the look on his face she gave good head. They swapped positions; she lay on her back with a pillow wedged beneath her hips. Knees bent, he pushed her thighs wide apart and burrowed his face into her. She threw back her head in pleasure, her mouth gaped open.

He obviously knew what he was doing also. The final shot was of the two of them sleeping, cuddled in the spooning position; a white sheet partially covering their glistening bodies.

The pictures were arousing. The couple looked good together, they were obviously enjoying it; it was real hot sex, not posed for the camera. He wasn’t sure about the guy, but the woman seemed vaguely familiar. Franco tried to focus in on her face, but it was always just out of

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shot, hidden from view. He flicked through the pictures again examining each one, then he saw it, her face was clear alright, very clear...

Franco stared, disbelieving, his heart in his throat. It was Tara... his Tara. His stomach turned, he felt nauseas.

Where had he seen the guy before? Racking his brains, he finally recognised the face from a picture on Tara’s fridge, and of course the sofa was familiar now, and the bloody bed, and the window... shit, are these old photos, from before we met?

He clutched at straws... that’s it, they are old shots of her with her ex... but who sent them and why? Feeling weak, he staggered to the sofa and sat down. He needed to find out when they were taken, his mind crazy with a spaghetti of thoughts he frantically scanned the pictures for a sign.

He had proposed to this girl today and here she was, giving it to someone else, all over the guy, thoroughly bloody enjoying herself... these have to be old... think... think!

Sweeping everything off the coffee table he made a space to spread out the vile evidence. Trying to remain calm, he placed them in time-frame order, and leaned in close to scrutinise each one. He found nothing to date them, the guy’s hair was shorter than he remembered, but that didn’t mean a thing.

Then he saw it.

During the throes of passion at their last lunchtime session, he had accidentally scratched her cheek with his 273

watch bracelet; blood trickled down her face; he had wanted to stop pummelling into her and sort it out, but she was too far gone to let him stop, telling him to ignore it.

They had laughed about it afterwards, how was she going to explain a bloody cut to the office? It hadn’t hurt, but left a small one inch surface scar on her skin. He had kissed it better, over and over, apologising, mortified at having hurt her. It now came back to haunt him.

On one of the window shots, you could see part of her face; she was being kissed passionately by the man, smothered by him. He knew what that felt like – his stomach lurched with pain. Lamplight from the street shone in through the window, casting a yellow band of light across her cheek, the healing scar was there for all to see. Proof that the pictures had been taken since Franco and she were together; she was still shagging her ex... the two-faced little bitch!

He remembered that he thought her a bitch the day they first met, at Seb’s studio, why the hell hadn’t he followed his instincts and left her well alone?... Maria’s an angel compared to this slut!

Seb was showered, dressed and ready for copious amounts of food. He skipped into the living room to cadge a quick scotch while he waited for supper, and maybe some of those tasty black olives Mimi left lying around. He found Franco hunched over the coffee table studying papers. Jumping smartly over the arm of the sofa he plonked himself down beside Franco, playfully grabbing his shoulders and shaking them.

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“Franco, my man, you’re a star, what a great day, you’re a natural, you’re gonna love the shots…”

The cheeriness in his voice faded as he followed Franco’s gaze to the photographs spread out across the table. It took a while for the images to sink in… ohmigod, porn, that’s a bit much, what if Mimi wanders through... gawd blimey, these Iti’s... getting up to go, thinking he had caught Franco lusting over porn, he recognized Tara’s face.

“Hold on a minute,” he said aloud, “that’s Tara, for chrissakes,” he leaned in closer, “what the hell’s she doing…?”

“She’s fucking someone Seb,” Franco shouted, “what do you think she’s fucking doing? The bitch is two-timing me!”

Seb picked up one of the shots for an even closer look; he was right... jeysus, pretty saucy stuff. Then he recognized the guy and started to laugh.

“That’s not someone, that’s Ed, an ex of Tara’s mate; they split up a long time ago. He’s married, no problemo mate, don’t get your knickers in a twist, these pictures are well old. Where the hell did you get them?”

Chucking the picture back onto the table, glad to have put out the fire, he started to get up from the couch... now where the bloody hell’s the scotch, jeysus, didn’t know Ed had such a big cock, no wonder Tara had a smile on her face. It was probably best not to share that thought with Franco, sense of humour failure imminent.

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Franco was having none of it. “Fuck off, I know what I’m talking about,” he grabbed the window shot, and pushed it into Seb’s surprised face.

“You see that cut on her face, MATE,” his finger angrily prodded the picture, “I did that to her, MATE, it’s recent, MATE,” he shouted.

He had a thing about being called mate, he hated it, especially right now, if Seb didn’t shut up, he was gonna knock him out. Seb carried on trying to placate him.

“That’s nothing, mate, a trick of the light, trust me, I’m a photographer, mate,” he gave Franco a consolatory pat on the back, trying to be helpful, “scratches happen on negatives all the time, mate, it’s n...”

CRACK... Franco punched Seb’s lights out, which is not easy from a seated position on a sofa, Seb thought afterwards.

Ignoring the stunned Seb writhing in pain, blood streaming from his nose, Franco grabbed the pictures and charged out the front door. He jumped into the Jeep and screeched off down the winding cliff road, snarling gear changes wrecked the tranquillity of the sunset.

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Chapter Thirty-Two Supper that night was interesting. Franco and his beloved jeep had disappeared. Mimi feared he was angry with her after her outburst, she shouldn’t have interfered.

Anton, Mark, Seb, and Tony were sitting at the table when Maria, miraculously composed after her breakdown, swanned into the dining room. She was totally overdressed, wearing a short black designer number that cost a small mortgage. Automatically assuming the role of queen bee, she rudely plonked herself down at the head of the table and coolly flicked back her glossy curls. Mimi watched in disbelief, passing around plates of steaming carbonara... that’s Franco’s chair, the cheek! Tony, fearing a bowl of pasta ending up in Maria’s lap, tenderly squeezed his wife’s arm.

“Down girl... he’s not here anyway, he won’t mind,” he whispered, cheekily patting her bottom, taking her mind off the enemy.

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Anton played wine waiter. Mark wondered if Mimi had any ketchup... all this Italian stuff was a little fussy for him, burger and chips would be good.

Tara burst into the dining room, flushed from a hot bath, still stinging with anger at Franco’s lies. She searched the room ready for battle ... where the hell is that cheating bastard? But on spotting the uber glamorous, uber skinny Maria gloating, presiding over proceedings from his chair, her confidence sank... ohmigod, she looks amazing... that dress wouldn’t fit past my ankle... subconsciously pulling in her stomach... shit, I need a diet.

Maria casually looked Tara up and down, ‘totally unimpressed’ written on her taut face. She managed to make Tara feel fat, frumpy and inadequate in less than a nanosecond. She considered turning round and forgetting dinner... she’s really getting on my tits, this bird... at least they are MY tits, not saline chicken filets, sutured onto a stick insect’s sternum... no way is she going to intimidate me?

Determined to rearrange the pecking order, Tara stood tall, yanked back her shoulders and kicked out her full DD cup... take that you bitch, they’re all mine! Tara (and her chest) marched to the chair furthest from Maria. Mark and Tony’s eyes nearly popped out, they hadn’t noticed Tara’s cleavage before.

“Just salad for me, thank you, Mimi.”

Mimi gave an understanding smile, ignored the request and passed her a plate of mouth-watering pasta.

“You can be on a diet when you are back in London, here

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you eat good Italian food!.. Anton, wine for Miss Tara please.”

Tara took the plate, it smelt too good to refuse... urrgh, so bloody weak, that diet lasted all of one second. Mimi gave her a conspiratorial wink, giving hope that at least she saw scheming Maria for what she was. Why was Franco blind to it? What was it with men not being able to see a devious woman from a thousand paces? Were they that stupid? It should be part of a boy’s curriculum, along with how to remain faithful, there is a life outside football, farting is not that funny and dishes don’t magically clean themselves.

Maria’s syrupy voice rang out across the table.

“Yes, Tara, honestly, woman to woman, you do need to lose just a titsy witsy bit of weight, your face could look so much prettier if it were slimmer, I really believe it, dahling, you do have a lovely face under there…”

“Love, fifteen,” thought Seb, mashing his food, chewing painful with a near-broken jaw.

Anton spluttered on his forkful, the cheek of the bitch!

He jumped to Tara’s defence.

“Oh heavens NO Tara, don’t you dare go on a diet,” his voice aghast at the thought, “you’re perfect, men luurve something to hold onto, don’t they, Seb?” looking over at Seb for reassurance.

Seb nodded furiously, “yeah... yeah mate,” as if he knew!

He was surprised that Anton assumed him straight, surely 279

he of all people would have gaydar - maybe he wasn’t gay, just confused.

Anton carried on, arms waving in front of him, drawing a curvaceous shape in the air.

“Men like to feel warm flesh between their legs... to rest their head on an ample bosom... to sink into full juicy passion,” he looked over at Maria.

“There is absolutely no pleasure in humping a bag of bones... and that hard pubic bone, urrgh... so painful, darhling... a womanly body is so much sexier,” he took a sip of wine.

“The Lord knows we’re skinny long enough in our graves, don’t you think?” he leaned over and layered Tara’s plate with lashings of Parmigiano cheese.

“Oh yeah… big tits... big ass... you can’t beat it, fanbloodytastic!” Piped up eager young Mark, forgetting where he was - definitely a boob man.

All faces turned towards him, shocked at hearing the normally shy boy speak, never mind what he’d said.

Turning red with embarrassment, he thought better of adding further views on the female form and shrank back into his pasta.

Fifteen all.

Maria played with her food, dismissing Anton, what did he know? She doubted he had ever had a woman. She caught Tara grinning into her plate... not for long, bitch.

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“Mimi, dahling, this is lovely, you must give me the recipe. Franco just loves me cooking for him, wine, candles, an early night… he is so romantic, must be the Italian in him, don’t you think?”

Fifteen, thirty.

Before Mimi could answer, she carried on talking at her captive audience.

“So, how did the shoot go today? It’s sweet to see how seriously Franco is taking this dahling little job, I’ve been helping tutor his acting. He is a very good performer, you know it is quite amazing how convincing he can be when needed, he certainly knows how to turn on the charm.

Now, let’s see, what do each of you do?”

She looked around the table, feigning interest in her fellow diners.

“Seb, you’re the photographer, obviously, Mark, you must be the assistant, who is the makeup artist?”

“Anton,” they said in unison.

“Ah ha,” she said disapprovingly, having taken an instant dislike to the outspoken arrogant little poof, “then who is the hairdresser?”

“Anton,” again in unison.

“Ah, how sweet,” she lied, “the stylist?”

“Anton,” they giggled.

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“Ooh hey, don’t forget Tony,” Anton said proudly, winking at the old boy tucking into his food.

“He’s my wonderful assistant,” he didn’t normally dislike people on sight, but this snooty nosed bitch was getting to him.

“Anton, gosh, how very useful you are, a genuine ‘Jack of all trades’… you do a bit of everything, and everyone I should imagine,” she smiled sweetly at him, as if in jest.

Contentious line call?

“And Tara,” turning to her main victim before Anton could retaliate, “and what is left for you to busy yourself with, my dear?”

Fifteen, forty.

“Not a lot, really, it’s rather dull… I just fuck the model, give him head from time to time,” Tara replied, bored, nonchalantly supping her glass of red wine.

Thirty, forty.

The table spluttered into their plates with giggles. Maria laughed a little too loudly, pretending it was a good joke.

Mimi, not quite managing to keep up with the banter, looked to Anton for an explanation. Tony had given up fathoming who was doing what to whom long ago, but from the tension he knew it wasn’t pleasant. It was best to mind his own business; he got on with demolishing his food, thanking God for the millionth time for such a great wife. Fork in hand, he blessed himself.

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Seb winked a ‘well done’ at Tara, and immediately regretted it as a piercing pain shot through his cheek.

Franco had well and truly knocked him one. The others had believed his story of taking a pee in the middle of the night and accidentally crashing into a low beam.

Franco was well out of order, lovesick or not, no excuse!

No way would the two of them be able to pose happily for the next days shoot. They needed to talk, sort it out or rethink the layout and have a plan B... mind you, with these eejits, everythin can change overnight.

He wondered what the hell Tara was playing at; Ed had broken her heart big time, why go back to him? He would only have been using her for a quick leg-over. What was it with women and bastards, they couldn’t resist them, mad or what? He pushed the thought of David out of his mind.

It was obvious that Tara didn’t know about the pictures yet, she was too huffed-up about Maria’s presence. Maria was the least of her worries, with the absence of Franco; he guessed he would have the job of telling her the good news... nice one, thanks Franco... shyte, what a mess!

The pictures were black, white and grainy, he recognized the style, a disturbing thought had been nagging him... shyte, if it is feckin David, what the feck is he up to?

Supper continued with Franco’s women silently seething at each end of the table. After pushing her food around the plate for twenty minutes, Maria lit a cigarette and stood up. She had eaten nothing.

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“Thank you Mimi, that was wonderful, do excuse me, I’m going up to prepare for Franco, we’re having an early night, we’ve missed each other madly and have some catching up to do,” she smiled salaciously, “good night, everyone.”

Game.

She blew kisses into the air as she left the table; turning back at the door, she said to an incensed Tara, “don’t bother waking us in the morning dear, I’m a very good alarm clock, I know just the thing to get Franco up… sweet dreams, everyone,” she slammed the door behind her, sending cloying perfume and cigarette smoke wafting through the room.

Set and match…

Tara was furious... the cow, how dare she?... how to get him up... he probably jumped out of bed with fright seeing that ugly mug first thing... yuk, just think, my mouth has been where her mouth has... shit, not to mention where his mouth has been... yuk yuk yuk! She slumped in her chair, holding back tears.

Anton jumped up and ran around the table to give her a big hug, squeezing her tightly, he kissed the side of her head, the others looked on sympathetically.

“She’s the bitch from hell; don’t give her a second thought. Franco has more taste than that my dear. She’ll be out on her ear tomorrow, mark my words. She’s got more verbal than a fishwife, and smells worse, what’s that pong she’s wearing, pulease!” he was such a sweetheart, Tara loved him.

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The gang helped Mimi clear the table to the kitchen and set about washing and drying plates. Tony, long ago banned from handling breakables in the kitchen, sat in the corner and strummed on his guitar, lifting the atmosphere. Anton insisted on pouring everyone more wine, and they drank, laughed, and swayed to the Latino rhythm as they worked.

Mimi had never had so many helpers in her kitchen before; she loved it, giving everyone direction on what went where. Anton taught her the meaning of ‘alarm clock’. Her English was coming along in leaps and bounds, not necessarily with vocabulary that would be of use, but it was definitely expanding. She loved learning with Anton; he made it fun with his arm waving, facepulling explanations of words.

Leaving the others giggling in the kitchen, Seb gently pulled Tara aside and into the living room.

“We have to talk Tara,” his solemn voice frightened her.

“What’s up, Seb? You look terrible; so sorry about your face, you poor thing, will you be able to work tomorrow, shall we delay for a day?”

Typical, Tara always worried about someone else. He sat her down on the well-worn sofa... if only sofas could talk.

“Look, there is a problem with Franco...”

“I know,” she interrupted, “isn’t she a bitch? I’ll kill her before this trip’s over, so help me…”

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“It’s not Maria, she is the least of your problems,” he looked to the floor, searching for the right words, his grave face unsettling her.

“What is it, Seb? It hasn’t been leaked that I’m involved in the shoot, has it? Ohmigod...” she began to panic.

“No, no, nothing like that,” he reassured her, “someone has sent Franco some pictures of you in a compromising position.”

“Who has? What kind of position?”

He had the urge to say…well, doggy and 69 actually, but felt better of it.

“Pictures of you and another guy... doing it.”

“Doing what? Seb, you’re not making sense.”

“Doing it…Tara… you and Ed, actually…” “Me and Ed doing what?” she shouted, beginning to lose her temper, wishing he would get to the point, momentarily stunned at the mention of Ed’s name.

“Shagging,” he shouted back, “for fuck’s sake, Tara, you and Ed shagging, in your flat, in all positions, in all rooms…”

“Shagging,” she said incredulously.

“Making love, fornicating, boning, fucking, bonking, banging, having your chimney swept, getting it on, donald ducking… whatever you want to bloody well call it, Tara. It is you and Ed at it in your flat,” he was losing his temper, god, she was being slow.

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“Why… how… who would?” she ran nervous fingers through her hair, “what did he say?…oh shit.”

“Oh shit yes, he’s furious. I tried to tell him it was a while ago but he was having none of it ... he hit me,” pointing at his bruised face, “you didn’t really believe I walked into a beam, did you?”

“No, err, yes… err… shit! Seb… he was right, I saw Ed just recently, it meant nothing, if anything it was a goodbye bonk, closure, you know what I mean. Anyway, where is Franco now? I have to talk to him, explain it to him... hey, hang on a minute,” she stopped mid-panic.

“What the hell am I getting all apologetic about? He has been seeing the bloody bitch from hell all the time he has been seeing me,” she stood up and walked around the room, arms waving, her fury returning.

“He is the one who has some explaining to do, whoever sent the pictures I should thank, he deserves it the little two-timing rat... and to think he proposed to me today, what a cheek.”

“He did what?”

“Proposed to me, well, sort of, said he was going to marry me, I guess that is a proposal of some sort… luckily I didn’t have time to answer him, I was too busy kissing the bloody son of a bitch. Christ, what a mess,” she continued stomping around the room. Mark opened the door and breezed in, beer in hand, taking one look at Tara’s dark face, he backed out and shut the door.

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“How can a guy get all loved up with me one minute and have Lady bloody muck the next? I should have known it when I caught them having lunch together. I’m just his bit-on-the-side, he’s another Ed. Well, this bit-on-theside is no longer on the menu. I’m getting the first plane home in the morning.”

“Tara, we have more at stake than your mixed-up bloody love life,” Seb raised his voice, annoyed at her selfishness, “we have a shoot to finish, in case you’ve forgotten. You are going to sit down and plan a new schedule for tomorrow. Granted, it’s going to have to go on without you, ’cause there’s no way he’ll work with you in the mood he’s in… I think we can get away with what we have in the bag already, just film a few add-ons tomorrow, whatever; we need to sort it now, while we still have time to catch the New York office for agreement, ok?”

She felt her wrist being slapped, she calmed, he was right, she was being unprofessional.

“Sorry Seb; yep, of course… let’s get started, I’ll get Mark back in here.”

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Chapter Thirty-Three He drove the journey back to his parents’ house in half the time, he was lucky not to have killed someone or been stopped for speeding. The Jeep flew along at speed, carried by his rage.

He had finally found someone he could spend the rest of his life with, and she turned out to be a putana like all the rest. He had made a fool of himself, and in front of an audience, he guessed the others had heard his marriage proposal... what a bloody idiot!

He worked out which night the pictures were taken; it had to have been his mid week away game, the only night they had been apart. He looked down at the large brown envelope lying innocently on the passenger seat, flashes of its contents jumped out at him. Glistening bodies, limbs, mouths, tongues, all locked in writhing passion, tormenting his thoughts. One visual etched its way to the front; Tara’s head thrown back, mouth open, a half smile of pleasure... had he ever made her that happy? He doubled up in pain, bending over the steering wheel, his 289

heart thumped through his chest... it fucking hurts. He flattened the accelerator to the floor to escape the pain.

Who the hell had taken the pictures? Who knew his address? He supposed the latter was not difficult to find out; he had been in the public eye for some time; his valued privacy was slipping away.

Whoever sent them also knew of his feelings for Tara, which was recent, they had kept their relationship quiet, or so he had thought. Was it Maria, could she have organized this? Michael? No, he and Brommers were the only ones he could trust.

Who else knew about him and Tara? Seb? Nah, he wouldn’t jeopardize filming. Maybe Tara had a jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe it was Ed... yeah, that’s it; he set up the camera for a little home-movie time, the bastard.

He pulled up outside his parents’ house and sat in the car until he calmed down. He was not sure why he had come here; he could have gone to a hotel. They would be surprised to see him again so quickly, he would have to put on an act that all was ok. With a feeling of déjà vu, he pulled out his phone and turned it on for the first time since he had sat in the same spot the day before, cutting off Maria as she ranted.

His message in-box was full of obscene texts from her.

She had also left voice messages, all along the same theme of killing him, then his bitch, and the various slow painful ways in which she would do it. She had an interesting imagination; he subconsciously cupped his balls to make sure they were still there. With a sigh, he erased everything.

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Maria had certainly got her wish of splitting them up, without having to do a thing; Tara had done it for her. He dialled Michael’s number. Ever alert, Michael picked it up on its first ring.

“Hello, Boss, how’s it going? Lady Moodyknickers get to you all right?”

“Yes, she bloody well did, Michael, what the hell do you think you’re doing, telling her where I was?”

“I didn’t boss, she called last night asking for a lift to the airport, she said that you’d called asking her to come over and help with the shoot, it was going badly or sumfin. She already knew the address; I thought you had given it to her. I tried to call you but your phone was off… the little bitch… sorry, mate.” Michael was mortified, “did she give you the envelope? It looked urgent.”

If anyone else called him ‘mate’ he was going to kill them. What is it with this country? Is everyone a ‘mate’?

Where he came from, it was someone you fucked on a regular basis and had babies with.

“Yeah, she did. That was a nasty surprise as well, where did you get it from?”

“It was with your mail. She was going out there, so I thought she could bring it to you, as I said, it looked… err… urgent. Anything you want me to do, Boss?”

Michael had known how nasty a surprise it was, he had taken the liberty of opening it when it arrived, as he did with all suspicious looking mail, ever protective of 291

Franco. He decided it was something Franco should urgently see, especially as he was out on the shoot with the lovely (not so much of a) Lady T. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t want Franco making a fool of himself. Forewarned is forearmed and all that shit.

He had taken the risk of letting Ms. Moodyknickers deliver it, taping the envelope so securely closed, that she wouldn’t risk opening it for fear of being caught.

“No it’s ok, thanks Michael, you were right to forward the package on. I have one more day of shooting then we return, I’ll call you with the flight details when they are confirmed. Good night, and... err... sorry if I bit your head off, see ya later.”

“Yeah, no worries Boss, see ya,” the phone clicked off.

Michael didn’t like the sound of Franco’s voice; he sounded weak and depressed. Lady T had obviously meant more to him than he had realized. Those pictures were disturbing, if she wasn’t involved in taking them, it meant someone was watching her, and that someone was able to get pretty close, dangerously close, to her and Franco.

He knew exactly when they had been taken; he had been parked outside her flat when lover boy arrived, had seen him go in and noted that he didn’t leave before dawn, when Michael, tired, had finally gone home. He hoped that she had seen the pictures; she needed to be warned that she was being stalked.

He also knew that Franco was a jealous full blooded Italian, and would be unforgiving in the fidelity department, even though he was naughty, his lady wasn’t allowed to stray. This little incident would put an end to

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their liaisons, which was sad; Michael had liked her, approved of her for the boss.

Anyway, he had other things to worry about right now, so much for his day off. Someone had scratched the Mercedes again, this time with the word ‘KUNT’ etched in large spidery letters across the hood. He would spend his day off organizing the respray job. This was getting expensive and tedious.

Franco spent the night at his parents’ house; they were a little surprised to see him, but loved it all the same. There was always enough food in the pot for one more guest.

They talked through the night about old times and family gossip. He then crashed out in his old room, surprisingly, he slept like a baby, he was more tired than he realized, or was it the copious amounts of wine he had knocked back?

The same could not be said for Maria; she waited all night for Franco to return. She dressed in a sexy cream and black silk baby doll number, with matching stockings, suspenders and peek-a-boo bra, the whole shebang. She lit scented candles, decked herself out in full hair, makeup, and jewels and lay out seductively on the bed. She didn’t like sex; it was a tedious, uncomfortable, messy chore that helped her get what she wanted from men. She was well practised in going through the motions, dressing the part, stroking the ego and faking the orgasm, with perfect inflection, timing and volume control... God bless men, but they fell for it every time.

She set the seduction scene and patiently waited, lounging across the bedspread, drifting in and out of 293

sleep. Suspender clips, hooks, elastic and whale bone dug hard into her thin skin as she tried to get comfortable.

By the morning, the candles had burnt out, her hair looked a mess, her makeup had slid down her face, and her body was itching to get out of the now scratchy seduction gear. Her sexy little number had lost its charm in the glare of the early morning sun, as it crept through the curtains to sting bloodshot eyes.

Tara hadn’t slept; she had gone through the days shoot with Seb the night before, over a large brandy. Then booked a taxi to whisk her off to the airport in the early hours. She left a note to Mimi and Tony, thanking them for all their hospitality, and apologizing for her early departure - she had to rush back to work. Another note for Mark and Anton, thanking them for a great job; they were stars, they would all meet up and have a drink on her when they got back, keep up the good work. P.S. Anton, try not to frighten Tony too much, he doesn’t get the group hug thing!!!

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Chapter Thirty-Four Even though he hated her for what she had done, Franco was gutted when he arrived back at the villa early the next morning to find her gone. The place felt empty, the excitement of the shoot gone. He wanted to get the whole thing over and done with, get back to London and on with training, back to what he knew, where he had control. Anything to take his mind off her.

He sat down with Seb over breakfast, having apologized for the left hook the night before.

“No problem, mate; broken nose makes me more attractive to the ladies, so Mimi says,” Seb kindly wrote it off, grateful that they were still talking.

They went through the change in layout of the day’s filming. They had originally been briefed to take holidaytype footage of the couple at play, but obviously under the circumstances it would have resembled more of a bloodbath than a holiday, so Tara had gone to her superiors with some cock’n’bull story about the model 295

being taken ill and a re-jigging of the shoot to still make the deadline and, per chance, improve the storyline…blah blah. They had agreed and she had left for London.

They would film Franco searching for the woman he had lost, walking through the haunts seen in the previous day’s pictures, keeping with the ‘Gotta See Her’ theme.

Franco agreed, he just wanted to get it over and done with.

Shit, he suddenly remembered Maria. Where the hell was she? Upstairs sleeping most likely, she never was an early riser. He didn’t want to see her, so rushed everyone into action, they were all up and out, setting up the first shoot, before they could say, “err… what about breakfast?”

He needn’t have worried about Maria; she looked like death, she had no intention of leaving the bedroom until they were all out of sight. She had some major repair work to do on her appearance. The thought of anyone seeing her, least of all Franco, in this state made her panic. She needed time to get her act together.

She had seen Tara leave in the early hours and then heard Franco’s Jeep arrive later that morning. While relieved that he had not come to the now locked bedroom door, she was angry that he had not even tried to see her; he had ignored her. She scrambled herself together by popping a few pills, applying mountains of polyfiller to her face, and doing a few press-ups. The pills picked her up; the polyfiller covered the evidence; and the press-ups got the blood pumping around her body, giving her a healthy glow and speeding up the hit from the pills.

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Finally feeling ready to meet her public, she put her sunglasses on and started to go down to breakfast, or brunch, it was midday. On the stairs, her cell phone rang, making her jump out of her skin. Jesus, her nerves were shot. It was Franco.

“Hello,” she said cautiously. “Get your act together by the time I get back, we are leaving for the airport at 6 p.m.”

Click, the line went dead, short and sweet. He sounded pissed off; the journey home was not going to be a bundle of fun. Forgetting breakfast, she turned on the staircase and went back to the bedroom. She popped a few more pills and fell asleep on the bed.

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Chapter Thirty-Five

Sixteen years earlier Heddington Hall Boarding School, Berkshire, England Dear David Thank you for such a sweet letter. It was very nice of you to say such lovely things. I had no idea how you felt.

This is very difficult to put into words without hurting your feelings, but, you must know that I think of you as just a friend. I see you as Hel’s lovely little brother. It would be too weird to have a relationship with my best friend’s little brother.

I am so sorry I don’t feel the same way, and apologise if I have led you on, I did not mean to. I feel a complete bitch writing this and understand if you don’t want to talk to me again.

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You are a very good looking young man, and will have no problem meeting lots of girls when you leave school.

You will break many hearts, they will be lucky to know you, you sound like a very passionate person.

Take care T He held his breath as he read and reread her words, the joy and excitement of moments earlier drained his dazed body. He lay in disbelief, zombiefied; she had said no, how could that be?

Holding the letter over his head, he gazed at the shapes of the letters that made up the words, the sentences, her feelings. How could such simple shapes etched on paper have the power to give this pain? If he rearranged them he could change their meaning, spell out the opposite, reclaim his angel, be with her forever. The letters blurred together as tears filled his eyes.

He scrunched the page into a ball and held it to his chest.

Staring at the ceiling, he concentrated on the cool path of tears that trickled down his cheek, over his ears to the back of his neck. The realisation of betrayal crept over him, he began to shiver. It was all a lie, she didn’t love him, she wouldn’t save him, she saw him as a silly little boy. He imagined her and his sister laughing over his letter, dissecting the intimate words of love; it would provide bountiful bullying material for Helen.

All those years of dedicating his life to her, suffering the abuse, being the Headmasters willing whore, believing she would absolve him, save him, protect him… all a lie.

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She had conspired with the Headmaster, not been his guardian angel – but surely the Devil had given her to him?

Lost and confused he rolled onto his side, curled into the foetal position and he cried for hours. The years of abuse seeped through his young body, rotting away the last remnants of David, the boy. Someone had to pay for what had happened to him. In those moments a vengeance seed was sown, ‘payback’ became a light at the end of the tunnel, his reason to survive. He swore to impose a brutal penance on those who hurt him, he would help them repent their sins and bring them closer to their god... right up close.

KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK Loud banging stole into his thoughts, someone was at the dorm door... shit! He was probably in trouble for having missed the morning lessons. He rapidly wiped his face, clearing up the tell-tale tears and stuffed the letter under his pillow. A young first year popped his head around the heavy oak door.

“Howard... Head wants you in his study, now... chop! chop!” his message delivered the boy turned tail and ran back down the corridor, his footsteps echoed into the distance.

David sneered to himself, just what he needed, a session with the Head... let’s show the fucking bastard who’s boss now shall we, I’ ll cut his rancid dick off… bring it on. Jumping off the bed with renewed strength, he ran all the way to the Head’s study.

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Not bothering to knock, he burst into the musty old room.

The Head sat at his large wooden desk writing a letter, papers and books strewn across its leather surface. He ignored the impertinence of a child walking in uninvited and waved David to the chair facing him.

“Sit down, boy; I have some bad news for you.”

His solemn tone took David by surprise; he stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. The desks surface was not cleared of papers in readiness for their act.

“Sit boy, NOW,” he shouted, carrying on with the letter.

David swallowed hard, defiance drained from his face; he stepped sheepishly to the chair, not quite trusting. Surely nothing ever got in the way of the Head’s pleasure, was this a different game?

“I have just had a call from your father, he spent the night at the hospital, your mother was involved in a serious car crash... she did not make it I am afraid, she died an hour ago,” he finished the letter with a swirling signature.

David didn’t understand. He heard the words but couldn’t take them in. He put his hands over his ears and stared into the Head’s eyes, was he telling the truth? Was this one of his cruel games? He began to shake for the second time that day, he couldn’t take any more. The only person to have ever truly loved him couldn’t be dead? Please let this be a game, please let it be a lie.

“Nooooooooooooooo,” he bellowed in disbelief, “you are lying, she’s my mum, she can’t be dead.”

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He lunged toward the table and threw himself over it, sliding forward, stopping inches from the old man’s face, piles of papers tumbled to the floor. The Head continued to sign the letter, ignoring the prostrate boy across his desk. David flopped flat out, his face landing on the letter, smudging the fresh ink, he stretched his arms into a crucifix and splayed his legs, in readiness for their private act.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO,” he screamed into the table.

The Head tut tutted at the smudged ink. David looked up at him, he looked normal, any minute he would walk around the desk, unzip his cock and sink it into him, it would all be ok, just one of his cruel games. But the old man remained seated, calmly blotting the ink, pen still in hand.

“Get off the desk boy; this is not the time for that... later maybe.”

It was not a game.

“YOU LIAR,” David spat up at him, their faces uncomfortably close, “YOU HAVE ALWAYS LIED.” “Boy, now calm down,” wiping spittle from his mouth, “Sister will be here in a minute to give you some medicine, now calm down, I say,” how tedious, the child was making a scene, this was not going well.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” The sound of a pain tore through the Headmasters office and down the corridor. The sound he should have cried out years ago when he first lay across that desk. The

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sound that had been pent up deep inside for ten long years. The sound of abuse, stolen innocence, lost childhood... finally released.

David slid to the floor in tears, taking books and papers with him. He scrambled to his feet and, as if seeing the desk for the first time, he reeled back from it in disgust. It had been his dirty secret, his bed of torture. He stumbled, hugging his stomach, doubled up in pain. His mother never knew, he should have told her, not put his faith in Tara.

“I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HER,” he screamed.

He couldn’t breathe, he had to get away. He ran out of the study, down the corridor, on and on until he could no longer hear the Head shouting after him. He should have run a long time ago.

Back in the peace and quiet of the dormitory, he tore off his clothes and stood naked in front of the wall. He smashed his head against it, over and over, dulling the pain, calling for his mother, sobbing his heart out - what little heart he had left.

At the other end of the building, a boy, Seb Maloney, rushed through corridors, late from cricket practice.

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Chapter Thirty-Six The Sporjakk campaign hit the ground running.

As soon as the crew returned from Italy, Seb printed up the negatives and biked them over to the production team, who worked day and night, prepping the best shots, there were plenty to choose from. Franco looked even better than in the original shoot, and suitably despondent in the final days footage, having lost his girl, searching everywhere for her. Maria was right, he was a great actor, he looked suicidal.

Two weeks later the country was blanketed with posters, press, radio, television and cinema advertisements.

Sporjakk was everywhere. A rerecording of the sexy soul track ‘Gotta See Her’ was commissioned; it was released as a single and used as the backing track for the film and radio ads. It jumped into the top ten and quickly became an iTunes number one download. The music video, an edited mix of snippets from the shoot, became a favourite on music channels and YouTube’s most viewed; radio

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stations couldn’t get enough of Franco searching for his girl.

Football stadiums around the country echoed its catchy chorus; fans added their own inspired lyrics as only ingenious football supporters can. Wherever you went you either saw or heard it. It became the favoured song for talent show contestants and karaoke singers. From posters on the sides of buses to debates on prime time television. The big question on everyone’s lips was who is the mystery girl?

Looking for Frankie’s girl became a popular pastime; girls (and some boys) wore ‘I’m Frankie’s Girl’ T-shirts, bookies were taking bets and rewards were set up by the media for those giving information on her identity. The whole country got involved, there were a few bogus attempts to collect reward monies, but these were verified as false by the Harvinger Larvsen Advertising Agency.

The mystery captivated the nation’s heart, the timing was right; with the spiralling economy crunch the nation needed some light hearted fun.

The picture most frequently used in the campaign was the final shot of Tara and Franco naked and soaking wet, with Franco cupping Tara’s head in his hands and kissing her forehead. She was holding on tight, her back to camera. As Anton had predicted, the Sporjakk logo had been added to her back, it could be seen peeking out between strands of blonde hair on her right shoulder blade. Tattoo shops were swamped with wannabes for the look. Young girls flocked to hairdressers for copycat cuts; much debate was had about how the front was shaped. Even Franco’s out-dated shaggy look had a revival.

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They were a beautiful couple. Franco looked so broken hearted without her that the public felt sorry for him. The icing on the cake was that his fee for the campaign was going to charity; this was unheard of in the greedy world of football. The public loved him all the more for it.

The country had ‘Gotta See Her’ fever. The campaign was an advertising agency’s dream, capturing people’s imagination and uniting them in their search for Frankie’s mystery girl. It took on a life of its own. Sales figures for Sporjakk rocketed, Harvinger Larvsen’s client list trebled.

It was spinning out of control; everyone wanted part of the act, except Tara, Franco and Maria. Tara was petrified, her fear in being found out magnified daily, surely it was only a matter of time. She was flavour of the month in the office, but lived in fear of the moment it all came crashing down, her compounded lie to the bosses discovered. She took to wearing her hair in a ponytail or bun and was considering having it cropped short; maybe she should just leave the country.

She prayed that all those who worked on the shoot would keep quiet, especially when rewards started coming out for her identity. She knew that Anton could capitalize on the fame of the hairstyle alone, never mind the reward for naming her, but he was an honourable soul. Seb’s staff worshiped the ground he walked on, he was a good boss and rewarded them handsomely for their loyalty, besides, they were inundated with work as a result of the campaign, so didn’t want the rollercoaster to stop. Seb had also worked his magic on the original model by taking her on as a trainee stylist, and setting her up with a drug rehab program.

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She hated admitting it, but she missed Franco. They had ignored each other since their return. But she couldn’t go anywhere without being reminded of him, reminded of that glorious day when he had held her face in his hands and proposed to her.

She would buy a paper, a full sized Sporjakk ad would be in the front pages, and he would feature on the back sports pages. She would buy a coffee and the ‘Gotta See Her’ track would be pumping out of the radio. She would walk past a building site and builders would be whistling the tune. She would take a taxi and get stuck in traffic, lined up right beside a bloody bus carrying a ten-foot poster of him kissing her. People everywhere would have it as their ringtone. She would turn on the radio or television and Sporjakk ads would be aired, in between shows offering rewards for her name… shit! It was driving her nuts.

She guessed ‘he’ was still shacked up with the bitch from hell. Why was it that she always came second in relationships? Was this a pattern forming? Maria was a nasty conniving piece of work; it was a punch in the guts for him to choose a witch over her. The only grain of happiness was that this campaign must be annoying her as well. She guessed Maria would have put two and two together and knew that she was the mystery woman.

Franco had managed to keep her quiet somehow, thank God. She was happy for Seb; he was now the King of Soho, London’s media neighbourhood, everyone wanted to work with him. His fees doubled overnight, he was now in the big league.

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“Hollywood beckons, baby,” he teased on one of his many excited voicemail messages left on her phone, he was forever thanking her.

He ended up overseeing the whole campaign. His eye for detail kept it simple and stylish, from the commercials to the posters, CD cover and music video. He turned from being a flavour-of-the-month photographer, to a style icon. He and Franco began to hang out with each other; they got invited to the same glitzy parties and launches, Tara often noticed the two of them arm in arm on the paparazzi gossip pages. She was a little jealous to see they had become good friends.

Franco had difficulty with the increased hero worship. He was not a natural celebrity; he enjoyed his privacy. The press interest in him intensified, his life became unbearably claustrophobic. Ned had told him the attention would blow over soon, not to worry, keep his head down, and try to enjoy it while it lasted; it wasn’t hurting his sponsorship value.

His team manager, Terry Woodman, Woody, was not too happy with the added publicity; being an ex-player he understood the pressures that came with the game. He didn’t need any distractions taking his boys’ focus off their game. He brought in more security at the training ground to control the crazed paparazzi and fan interest... as if bloody Frankie’s girl would turn up here... what a bunch of prats!

Woody was proud of Franco. His player had taken the extra dressing room banter with a pinch of salt; he had the grace to smile and rise above it by working harder.

The boys would sing, “Have you seen it?” every time he missed a ball and fall into fits of laughter. To shut them

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up, he didn’t miss too many. Woody was also proud that Franco’s fee had gone to charity; it was a good thing; the lad was setting an example in their financially crazed industry.

The club Board were very happy. Tickets were sold out.

Online and megastore merchandising sales figures were rocketing. Franco memorabilia was flying off the shelves, his shirts, posters, books, mugs, kid’s wallpaper, pens.

Anything with Franco on it was now cooler than ever, especially for the teenage girls. Stadium tours were fully booked with fans eager to see the players’ dressing room, showers, tunnel, dugout, press-room, anything to get closer to Franco, with fantasies of bumping into him at the ground. Franco was now a severe babe magnet, a brand of his own.

Franco didn’t mind the banter in the club, or the singing on the terraces during the games, it spurred him on.

People on the whole were good with him, mainly because it was a worthwhile charity. What he did mind was that his private life was curtailed even more. He stayed at home most nights, a prisoner; it was too difficult to go out without being mobbed.

The few times he did leave the flat were when Seb coaxed him out, saying life was too short, everyone had to have some fun... don’t worry baby boy, I’ ll will protect ya, which he did. Along with Michael’s help of speedy getaways, Seb was the master at controlling difficult situations. His dulcet Irish tones would calm, melt, and manoeuvre the trickiest of moments. He felt safe and had fun with Seb.

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Sadly, Michael had to have the windows of the Mercedes tinted, so that they could drive the streets with privacy.

Franco hated it, tinted windows were naff; he felt more like a drug dealer than a footballer.

He stayed with Maria after their return from Italy. Those around him didn’t understand why, but mentally he was in a bad way and needed someone. He felt it better to be with the devil you know, rather than be alone. He used her; she became a willing companion in his misery.

He didn’t taste the meals she cooked, or hear her inane chatter. They shared a bed without intimacy, when they had sex it was without feeling, a cold bodily function for him to release stress. He would fuck and roll off her, ready to sleep. When he wanted to come, he thought of Tara; it worked every time.

They had little in common; she shopped, he trained. He didn’t notice that more and more of her belongings were being moved into his flat; he didn’t care, didn’t have the energy to care. She was there to stop him feeling lonely, although, if he were honest, he felt lonelier.

Like Tara, he hated the painful dig of seeing the two of them plastered everywhere, as the campaign continued to blaze throughout the UK. While travelling he kept his eyes down and took to hooking himself up to his iPod for fear of seeing a poster or hearing the ‘Gotta See Her’ track. Even classical music reminded him of her, he started listening to jazz.

He would often repeat Ned’s words to himself... this will all blow over, son, the public are fickle, sit tight.

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He dreamed about her every night. The dreams would start out with the two of them blissfully happy, with a feeling of safety and love, and end up as nightmares, with grotesque, exaggerated pictures of her and Ed haunting his sleep. Sometimes she would be with other men, laughing at him, taunting him. He would wake up in a cold sweat, shouting her name.

Maria pretended to be asleep, but she heard every word.

She also heard him whisper Tara’s name while they fucked. They fucked, they didn’t make love. He was a robot to her; she knew that he felt nothing, that he just went through the motions of living alongside her.

She also knew it was Tara in the Sporjakk campaign; the humiliation of seeing the two of them together, intimate and loving, cut deep. She kept silent; if she ignored it long enough, it would all go away; he would forget the bitch. He was with her now; that was all that mattered.

She relied on one set of pills to get her through the day and another for the nights. Eventually Franco would come back to her, he had to, he was all she had.

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Chapter Thirty-Seven It was 3 a.m.; the flat was in darkness; he had let himself in through the front door. He could hear her soft snores from the bedroom. He stripped naked in the hallway, leaving his clothes in an orderly pile on top of his shoes.

He clicked his phone off and perched it neatly on top.

His bare feet tip-toed into the bedroom; he stood over her bed and took in the scene. The room was hot; her body shone with perspiration. In her sleep she had thrown off the blanket; it lay in a heap on the floor at the end of the bed, a sheet covered the lower half of her body, one leg kicked out to find cooler air. He loved his night visits.

Her snores abruptly stopped as if she felt a presence. He stood very still, watching, barely breathing; had she woken? Her restless darting eyes remained closed; she tossed her head from left to right on the sweat-damp pillow, trying to shake something or someone off her. He waited quietly until she calmed, her snores resumed; she was asleep. With the amount of medication he had spiked

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her wine bottle with, earlier that day; she should be out of it for at least six hours.

He leaned over her face and kissed her gently on the mouth; his tongue traced the outline of her lips, backwards and forwards, covering her with saliva; her mouth eased open to his touch. He trailed his fingers down the side of her face to her body, circling her bare breasts as they heaved in and out in her sleep. He cupped them, her nipples hardened.

He walked around to the foot of the bed and slowly pulled off the sheet, exposing her body; holding her gently around the ankle, he eased each leg straight and open, forming a V shape. His hard, condom clad cock swayed between them, the anticipation killing him.

He crawled onto the bed and knelt between her legs. The light from the street lamp crept through the break in the curtains, giving him enough light to enjoy the sight of her naked body. He let his hands trail the length of her legs to her crotch; feeling the goose-bumps on her skin tingle into life. His fingers gently stroked the delicate skin of her lips through soft pubic hair. He gently parted the folds and dipped a finger inside; a low groan came from deep down in the back of her throat.

She was all he ever wanted, a beautiful soft angel, why had she abandoned him? When she was drugged like this they could be the way he had always wanted, a loving, passionate couple. He knelt forward and ducked his head between her legs, not touching, just breathing in her smell. When he could bear it no longer; he pushed his face into her flesh and breathed in again, hard against her pubic bone, taking her in. His tongue searched out her 313

clit, running backwards and forwards over the delicate skin of her lips, teasing the knot of nerve endings out of hiding, when he found it, he gently worked it.

Her breathing began to falter; she let out a moan and lifted her hips, pushing toward the stimulus. His large hands gripped her inner thighs, forced them further open, and held her in place. He worked his tongue in circles, over and over until juices started to flow. Her head rolled from side to side, her mouth opened wide, her hands gripped the sheet. He felt her building, felt the swelling of her clit as her moans became panicky intakes of breath. He wouldn’t let up, no matter how many times her hips bucked; he held her down; his tongue rubbed and delved into her until she finally came in deep long waves, crying out in her sleep.

He released her thighs, crawled up over her body, and sank long and hard into her wetness, riding the final waves with her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and put his juice covered mouth over hers, taking her breaths as she groaned with pleasure, stealing the air from her lungs. He loved tasting his angel.

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Chapter Thirty-Eight Back in his flat he dropped the condom in the bin, took a hot shower and made coffee, he had work to do. Over the past days he had patiently watched the saga unfold. He took his hat off to Tara and her team; they had done a great job, the campaign was a success. Franco had become a saint, a sex god with golden bollocks; everyone from grannies to teenagers to gays adored him. The whole country were searching for Tara, chasing the reward monies. Sport, Music and Fashion were lucrative industries, they had managed to combine all three... the higher they climb, the harder they fall, assholes, this is gonna be SO much fun.

He had given them enough time to enjoy the fruits of their labour; now it was time for a short sharp smack of reality. He worked quietly through the rest of the night, standing naked in his darkroom over trays of solution, waiting for images to emerge on paper. It was a turn-on to watch the naked bodies come alive before his eyes. He shunted the trays backwards and forwards, causing 315

ripples in the liquid, making them writhe in and out of each other, giving them life.

These moments were meant to be private, tucked away for their memories only, not to be captured and displayed for others to dissect and giggle over. He would humiliate and betray her, just as she had him. He chuckled to himself... they look like animals, dogs on heat. He selected the cruder looking shots and went about his Devil work, cheerfully whistling the ‘Gotta See Her’ tune... gotta see her now everyone, your all gonna see her now.

His excitement was tinged with sadness, he was nearing the end, following her, being intimate with her had become a part of his life, and he was good at it, she never suspected, not even his night visits. Once the photographs were exposed to the media, they would be moving to the final step of their dance, the music would stop, she would complete her penance, and he would go home.

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Chapter Thirty-Nine Her car was in for its paint job; she had driven around with ‘BITCH’ etched on the hood for long enough. She assumed Maria was the culprit, and was considering sending the re-spray bill to Franco; it was his bloody nutter of a girlfriend, after all.

She dragged herself into work, battling her way through the sardine sweaty, overcrowded underground. She picked up her regular coffee and biscuit breakfast combo, and she rushed, head down, through the reception of Harvinger Larvsen, straight to the lift. There seemed to be a lot of people hanging around, but she was too tired to bother to find out why.

“Morning, girls,” she sang, in the direction of the two receptionists, as cheerfully as she could muster, not in the mood to chat, she was exhausted. She had had a heavy night of unsettling dreams and images again, it was becoming a habit. She must have tossed and turned all night, her bed was a mess and she was covered in sweat when rudely awoken at 6.30 a.m. by her alarm clock. Her 317

body ached, her throat was parched and she had a searing headache. She hated mornings, she stood under the shower for twenty minutes to rejuvenate her body; she was, without doubt, not a morning person.

It was only as the lift doors were closing that she noticed Mrs. B and Tracey hadn’t replied to her cheery hello.

They were glaring at her open mouthed, as if she had just murdered a newborn baby in front of them. Charming, what’s eating them today? She didn’t have time for them now; she had probably used their special soya milk by mistake in the staff canteen. Woe betides anyone who came between Mrs. B and her section of the communal fridge door.

She made a note to remember to ignore them later when she popped out. She knew reception work was not the greatest job in the world, but they didn’t need to take it out on the rest of us... get a life girls!

She swapped her flatties for heels just as the lift door opened and headed straight for her desk, mumbling a cheery “good morning” to the rest of the office as she slumped in her chair. Her head hurt, she retrieved her biscuit and gratefully found a dog eared pack of headache tablets at the bottom of her bag. She stuffed the oversized bag into the bottom draw of her filing cabinet and, with some effort, squeezed it shut. Knocking back a few of the tablets with a swig of coffee, she brought the cup to her mouth and she noticed new bruising on her wrist... where had that come from? She shook her head, she was so clumsy recently, always covered in bruises, most of which she couldn’t explain, maybe she had thin skin?

The office seemed deathly quiet; she looked around to see all eyes on her, the mood distinctly hostile.

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“What’s up, someone die?” she asked the girl nearest to her, Kelly.

“No, but someone is about to,” said Kelly.

“Who?” Tara began to feel cold, oh no, it was happening, they had found out about her, “who, Kelly?”

“You… you silly mare... have you not seen the papers this morning?”

Kelly chucked the day’s press cuttings on her desk.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, girl,” she whispered, “Pete Wells wants to see you; you may need some brandy in that coffee. Go to the loo and have a good read, I’ll cover for you... now... get outta here quick.”

She ushered a bemused Tara into the Ladies, along with all the office newspapers, then fended off calls to Tara’s desk, most of which were from an incensed Pete. Her heart went out to her; even though Tara came across as a little snooty at times, you wouldn’t wish this on your worst enemy. She was well and truly up for the slaughter.

She had fooled the bosses, the client and the public.

Tara laid the papers across the line of sinks in the dim light of the ladies toilet.

“Ohmigod,” she put her hand to her mouth in shock.

Crude close-ups of Franco and his mystery girl were splashed across the front pages of every paper. Black and 319

white shots of their naked bodies rutting like animals.

She felt sick.

As she turned the pages more and more of the horror spread out before her, there must have been ten or fifteen pictures – where the hell had they come from. Her heart racing, she read some of the headlines, the press were having a field day; YOUR HAVIN’A’LARF’SON FRANKIE’S RED CARD ST FRANK’S AWAY GAMES GONNA SEE HER INSIDE JOB SPOR-JAKKING OFF CHARITY TO DUMP ROSSILLINI AGENCY CON. She cringed with embarrassment; the pictures resembled stills of a cheap porno movie. Each newspaper had its own comical way of blanking out any offending genitalia. Pictures of footballs, red cards, boots and World Cup trophies were stuck over her private parts.

Unscrupulous behaviour, definitely ‘not cricket’: Saint Franco and Miss Tara Warr, Assistant Executive of Harvinger Larvsen, the advertising agency responsible for the successful ‘Gotta See Her’ Sporjakk Campaign, have been exposed.

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The campaign launched a reward driven, mediafrenzied search to find the Sporjakk mystery girl.

The nation had been led to believe that she was a member of the general public. The mystery girl has been revealed as Miss Warr, a member of the Harvinger Larvsen production team, their New York HQ are ‘unavailable for comment’.

Tara began to realise that the pictures had been taken in her flat. They were grainy and out of focus at times, but her face was as clear as a bell.

Shit, what would her mother say?

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Chapter Forty Seb had not seen the press that morning; he had been too busy preparing to meet David. He had scrubbed and showered his body to within an inch of its life, knocked back a double coffee-cognac, and taken a taxi to David’s flat just before 9 a.m. He had called him the night before, asking if he could pop over for coffee in the morning.

More coffee was the last thing he needed; he was climbing the walls with the caffeine-induced amphetamine rush.

David had expected his call and was cool as a cucumber; his smile seeped down the phone line.

“Yes, of course you can, see you around 9 a.m. when I get back from the gym.”

Seb knew he was passing the point of no return but he didn’t have a choice; he would have no peace, no life, until he faced who he was. How fitting that his virginity should be taken by the very boy who had started all of this. The boy that had unleashed the cravings all those years ago. The boy that had controlled a small dark place in his mind ever since. They both knew he was there for

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sex, to exorcise the ghost one way or the other. As with most virgins, he was shit scared.

David had expected the call; he knew Seb was confused, tormented with shame and excitement. What an idiot, he needed to get over himself and his suburban bourgeois attitude. He needed to get fucked, it was only sex; what was the big deal? He had been at it since he was seven.

David thanked the Devil; he loved the way he chucked opportunities in his path, keeping him on his toes.

Bumping into Seb now meant that he could kill two birds with one stone, be a step closer to Tara and repay Seb for leaving him. He would enjoy playing with Seb’s emotions and then disposing of him. Seb was smitten, David’s prey. He would fall in love, become addicted, soar high, then be crushed and tortured. He would beg for the freedom that came with death. He wondered if Seb was a squealer when cut, probably.

David liked to control, to make up for the lack of it he had as a child. But from time to time he would relapse and hire a dominatrix prostitute to rape and humiliate him. The abuse would take him back to the comfort zone of the Headmaster’s study where he could become the victim again. Afterwards, feelings of anger and disgust would refuel his power, and he would take back control, until the next time he weakened. He lived a cycle of weakness and strength.

Seb was sitting uncomfortably on the sofa, making small talk; David stood by the kitchen entrance, checking out his reflection in a large mirror that hung over the dining table.

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“Do you want a ‘coffee’ now, Seb?” interrupted David, the double meaning not going unnoticed, the air tense with expectation.

“Yeah, err, yeah… let me,” Seb’s voice shook, “I’ll get it.”

He got up and walked toward the kitchen; he would have to pass David as he neared the entrance. He decided that if David did not make a move, he could veer off into the kitchen and just make coffee, no embarrassment. He prayed that he had not misread the signs, that David wanted him, it, as much as he. He looked for confirmation in his eyes... nothing.

Legs heavy with dread, he got a few feet from David, he was still checking himself out in the mirror, his fingers playing with his thick black hair, sweeping it back across his head, tendrils falling over his face. Still no sign; panic rushed over him. Seb faltered... oh God, he doesn’t want me, I’ve been a bloody fool.

Hands still in his hair, David turned to face him. He wore a tight black T-shirt and loose fitting jeans. With his arms lifted up, his torso formed a perfect V shape; his hard toned stomach peeked out from below the shirt line. The belt on his jeans was slack, they hung low over slouched hips, he looked so bloody inviting, Seb just wanted to step nearer and slide his hands down inside his pants.

“What do you think, Seb, shall I get it cut; it’s a little long, don’t you think?” holding his gaze seductively, turning his head from side to side for Seb to see.

Seb stepped forward to check, “well, no... err... I think its fi...”

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He didn’t let Seb finish; taking him by surprise, he lowered his arms, grabbed the back of his neck, and slammed hard into his chest, his mouth crushing Seb’s, absorbing the yelp of shock.

It was finally happening. Seb had thrown himself off the cliff; he was falling, his weightless body soared through the air; he was in heaven. Unleashed, he sucked David’s face hungrily, mouth, neck, ears, mouth again; every inch was covered with lips and searching tongues. He was let loose on blissful male flesh. Goosebumps scrambled across his body, every inch crying out to be touched. He didn’t dare let go for fear of it ending.

Saliva drenched mouths sucked, probed, licked. Eager hands tore at clothing; shirts were stripped off. Seb was amazed at how beautifully male it was - rough pushing, solid muscle, salty skin, energised, alive. So different from milky soft, sweet smelling, pliant women.

David shunted him against the wall and trailed his mouth across his bare chest. Seb looked down in awe at the unfamiliar sight of a man on him. He winced with the pleasure pain of rough stubble scraping over his skin, teeth biting at his nipples. David’s snake-like tongue flicked backwards and forwards over one nipple, a thumb and forefinger pinched and twisted the other. It was too much for Seb to bear. He couldn’t wait.

Falling to his knees (how many times in his life had he dreamed of doing this?) he tore at David’s belt and pulled open his jeans, unveiling the soft tufts of dark hair curling over the boxer shorts. He pressed his face against the long hard mound that stretched up to the waistband and breathed in deep through the material, he smelt sex.

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Pausing, he leaned back on his knees, to take in the scene. Did he really want to do this, to put a cock in his mouth? He ran his fingers along its length; the material pulled as it grew with pleasure. He rested his mouth on its tip, sucking hot air in and out through the cotton, it jerked back at him, alive, bulging... bloody hell it’s big.

“Let’s open Pandora’s Box and see what you wished for... be careful,” breathed David, his warning lost on Seb. Obediently, with trembling fingers he pulled the boxer shorts down. David’s fat cock lolled forward, hitting him in the face, he giggled nervously, taking a hold of it. Its warm bulging beauty shocked him, as with everything about David, it was perfect. His mouth couldn’t wait, he devoured it. He cupped David’s balls in one hand and his own in the other. He was in heaven, his face full of cock, the most private part of a man. It felt natural, as if he had been doing it all his life, he was home.

As Seb worked, David’s groans echoed around the room.

From time to time, his mouth full, Seb would look up into David’s eyes, searching for approval. The feeling of power was too intense, David wanted to come; he must hold back. The boy was good; he had taken to this like a duck to water. He pushed him away and leaned back against the wall.

“Let me watch you play with yourself, get it out.”

Obediently, Seb stood, pushed his trousers to his ankles, took his cock in hand and started to wank. They held eye contact. David grabbed his cock and joined in; they worked in unison, enjoying the sight of each other, turning each other on.

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“Yeah, pretty boy, you wanna get fucked, you wanna play with the big boys now, do the real stuff... turn around, bend over, give me your tight ass… today, you receive.”

Before he could react, David twisted him around and bent him over the back of the sofa. He pushed down hard on his Seb’s back, trapping him, then kick spread his legs apart at the ankles so that his hips were the correct height, he spat two mouthfuls of saliva into Seb’s crack, just like Headmaster had done.

Seb immediately lost his hard-on, fear struck. He wasn’t ready, he knew what was coming and tried to relax his muscles in time, but too late; David tore into him, riding him hard.

David knew he had gone too far, too quickly; he could see the fear and pain in Seb’s turned, pleading face. The Headmaster hadn’t stopped, why should he.

“Stop, wait… it hurts, fuck… please, you’re killing me.”

Seb scrambled to pull away, “shit, get off me...” he shouted.

He was being torn open; he had never felt such pain.

David slowed, and held him down. Maybe he had been a little rough.

“Wow, sorry, baby… you’re too much… it’s OK… it’s OK… relax.”

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He leaned over Seb’s back, hugging him tight, rocking him like a baby, his cock still inside, whispering hypnotic soothing words into his ear.

“Gently, slowly, slowly… there, there, relax, baby, relax, I’ll take it real slow,” he slid slowly in and out.

Seb’s body started to relax.

“It’s your fault, you are good, you sucked me good, too good baby, made me want it too much… your fault… slowly, slowly.” All the time licking the back of Seb’s neck, caressing and stroking his back and buttocks.

They began to fall into a gentle rhythm. Seb let his body relax against David’s, trusting him. This was going to be all right after all, he thought. He could feel his cock jerk into life again.

He had no idea of the chaos happening in the world outside; he hadn’t bought a newspaper that morning.

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Chapter Forty-One As fast and high as the press had built him up, they knocked him down. Franco first heard of the Tara pictures when he arrived at training. He and Michael noticed that there were more press than usual at the gates of the training ground. As he walked into the changing rooms, the lads were huddled together sniggering over a paper; they gave him a big cheer as he came through the door.

“Go on, my son…the Italian stallion…give it some…”

“What’s up?” he said innocently.

They swamped him, patting him on the back, ruffling his hair, digging him in the ribs, rubbing his two-day-old stubbled chin. The paper was shoved unceremoniously into his face, open at the centre pages. He went pale with horror when he finally managed to make out that the photos were of him and Tara, with various captions GOLDEN BOY PLAYS DIRTY - AD AGENCY SCAM - THE ITALIAN JOB. 329

“Holy shit!.. what the fuck?”

At first he thought they were the old Tara and Ed pictures he’d been sent in Italy; they were the same grainy, fuzzy style. But when he realized they were of him, his jaw dropped to the ground, along with his gym bag. His teammates thought it was great. Mr. Cool, scoring big time.

“Well done, Frankie, me old son. She’s a looker alright, nice tits, good on yer.”

They had no idea of the implications this had. Sporjakk, the Charity, Ned, the Club, Woody, his family, would all go bananas - not to mention Maria. Franco sat in the corner of the changing room, speechless - the guys all joking and jeering at his expense... shit ... and what about T?

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Chapter Forty-Two Before Pete Wells could track her down, Tara stuffed the papers under her arm, sneaked out of the back entrance of her office building, and jumped into a taxi back to her flat. No wonder the reception was busy that morning. It was swarming with paparazzi; she must have looked so rough this morning that none of them recognised her.

Thank God, there was no way she could face anyone right now.

She wanted to cry, but no time for that, she had to get her act together and sort it out. Hunched down low in the back of the cab, her mind raced on the trouble this would cause... shit!.. she should have come clean to the bosses in the beginning, keeping her job wasn’t worth this.

She tried to get hold of Seb, and left a message when he didn’t pick up, hoping he wasn’t ignoring her. Who the hell took the pictures? Were they the same as the Ed shots? She hadn’t seen them, if they really existed. She had been meaning to get the copies off Franco and 331

confront Ed with them, but contacting bloody Franco had not been on her list of priorities.

Franco wouldn’t have done it, would he?.. as payback for Ed? He could have set up a camera after one of their ‘lunch meetings’, she had left him alone in the flat often enough, while she had rushed back to the office. The shots all seemed to be taken from above; she was on her way home to investigate.

The journey seemed to take forever. Her cell phone kept ringing, names she recognised, the office, her bosses, and numbers she didn’t, she guessed these were journalists; she let each call go to voicemail.

Texts came through from the girls; they had obviously not read the papers yet. in need of pow wow, 2moro lunch booked, Josie coming.

Hel xxxxx understand why ur not hapi wiv me, didn’t tell ya cos woz ashamed, pls talk to me, miss ya, luv ya, sori J x Thank God for the girls; at least they would be on her side, although she hardly deserved it. Ashamed with the way she had handled Josie’s hooker announcement, Tara still hadn’t had the guts to call her. She was in denial that her friend could do such a thing, prostitution was bloody dangerous for God’s sake, and, if she was honest, she was hurt that Josie had not confided in her before.

However, she could hardly play the innocent with her cellulite ridden bare ass spread all over the papers. She wished she could see the girls now.

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The taxi finally pulled up outside her flat; she jumped out, paid the guy, and ran up the steps, head down, groping for her keys in the ever-ending handbag. She crashed straight into someone waiting on the doorstep. It was Franco.

“It’s you,” grateful it wasn’t a journalist, “what the hell are you doing here, come to cause more trouble,” she waved her stack of newspapers under his nose, trying to be angry with him, but it was so good to see him.

He had been waiting for her, hiding in the shadows of the entrance, hoping no one would recognize him. Having abandoned training that morning, there was no way he could concentrate so Woody sent him home, he called Tara’s office to be told that she had left for the day. He got Michael to drop him off outside her flat, and asked him to wait parked up around the corner.

“We have some talking to do, Tara, whether you like it or not. This little stunt is not gonna go away, what the hell are you playing at?”

She had opened the door; he pushed in after her to get out of public view, closing the door quickly behind them.

“What do you mean, what am I playing at, have you met my mum?” she glared up at him, “have you seen her blow a gasket?”

She didn’t know who she was more scared of, Pete Wells or her mum. Imagining her mother’s volcanic reaction, she nervously ran her hand through her hair releasing the newspapers tucked under her arm. As they slid to the floor, sordid images spread out across the marble tiles.

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The pair of them stood mesmerised, staring down at the black and white mosaic of them fucking. Tara wondered how something so good at the time, could now look so grotesque.

They quickly dropped to their knees and scrambled the papers together, anxious to hide them before any residents wandered into the hallway.

“I had nothing to do with this, do you really think I want to get the sack; do you really think I want the whole bloody world to see me shagging some good-for-nothing, cheap, two-timing rat of a footballer? Get a life Franco,” she blasted.

They ran up the communal staircase to her flat door, taking two steps at a time for fear of being followed. It would be a matter of time before the press would be hounding for comments.

“Well, if it wasn’t you, Miss Goody-two-shoes, WHO THE FUCK WAS IT?” he shouted at her as they fell into the privacy of the flat. He slammed the door shut and they leaned against it out of breath.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, turning to double-lock the key.

His raised voice had got to her; she started to well up, not being able to see properly, she fumbled the keys and dropped them.

“Shit, sorry,” she whispered at her clumsiness, the enormity of the situation hitting her. She wiped her eyes quickly so that he wouldn’t notice.

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His anger subsided, he had missed her so much, the old chemistry bubbled up inside him. She was even more beautiful when vulnerable. He picked up the keys, double-locked the door and handed them back to her.

“Thank you,” she took a step back, feeling uncomfortably close in the small hallway.

“Ok, let’s talk over a cup of tea... actually, I could do with something stronger,” she turned away and rushed off to the kitchen, not seeing his arm reach out, he wanted to hold her, thinking better of it, he remained quiet.

He spread the papers out over the dining room table and analysed the photographs. He should have brought the Ed photos to compare, he was sure they had been taken by the same person. Tara returned with two glasses of cognac, she had been thinking the same thing.

“Did you really see pictures of Ed and me?” her voice low.

“Yeah, I assume Seb told you. Thanks for that, Tara, you certainly know how to fuck someone up, you make a habit of taking pictures of you on the job, do you? Get a kick out of it?” the sarcasm in his voice stung.

“I told you this was not my doing,” she shouted, “nor was that night with Ed, well, I mean I didn’t take the bloody pictures,” getting angry was not helping. She sipped her brandy and tried again, her voice calm.

“What did they look like, could it be the same person taking them? How did they do it?”

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“Yeah, they looked very similar, taken from the same angles, black-and-white, out of focus, you know, fuzzy looking.”

He pointed at one of the shots. Tara was facing the wall of the bedroom, with Franco leaning in behind her, they were both naked and shining with sweat, he was fucking her hard, his body rigid, he was about to come. Tara blushed; she had a flashback of how good it felt... pull yourself together girl!

Franco nudged her rudely, impatient she wasn’t concentrating. She made an effort to focus on the picture, trying to ignore the fact that they were fucking, and that her hips looked enormous.

From the angle of the shots, the camera must have been positioned above and behind them.

“Look, let’s see where this camera would have been, we’ll line up in the same way,” Franco tore the page from the paper and dragged her into the bedroom.

“Franco, this is ridicul…”

She began to complain, but he was not in the mood to listen. Following the layout of the photograph he arranged their bodies in the same position, her up against the wall and he standing behind her, making sure their hips didn’t make contact, it was not the time to start getting horny. Holding the torn paper up in front of her face, he asked, “Right, Miss Marple, where is the camera?”

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They turned and looked over their shoulders to where a camera would have to be, both focusing on the chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling, over the bed.

Lining up the other shots, it was obvious that each had been taken from the same place, one camera.

Tara dragged a stepladder from the back of her overstuffed wardrobe; clothes and hangers flew everywhere. She held it in place while Franco climbed up to take a closer look. He found a tiny hole alongside the light fitting, fine freshly cut wires jutted out. Was the camera wired from the flat above?

Making sure the coast was clear, they stepped out of her flat and sneaked up the staircase like thieves, tip toeing along the lushly carpeted hallway until they found the door to the flat above hers. It was ajar, someone had left in a hurry, inside was dark, no lights.

“Hello, anybody there?” Franco pushed open the door, no answer.

“Hello,” he knocked, pushing the door further open. They gave it a few seconds, looked at each other, and with an agreeing nod, stepped inside.

The flat was empty, no carpets, just bare dirty floorboards. It smelled musty and old as if it hadn’t been lived in for some time. The layout was the same as Tara’s, she was hit by the thought that something so empty and cold could be so close to her own cosy, warm place, only a few floor boards separated them, she shivered.

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Franco led the way as they gingerly walked from room to room, turning on lights as they went, a single bulb lit up each, thick curtains and bin liners blocked windows, wire cuttings and empty boxes scattered the floor, whoever had been there had left in a hurry.

Franco pointed out that each room had a small hole drilled into the floor directly above Tara’s ceiling lights, to her horror, even the bathroom. The full scenario began to dawn, she felt nauseous, blood drained her face, reaching out to Franco she steadied herself.

“I’m going to be sick; please get me out of here, Franco.

Who could do this? How long have they been here? They have seen everything, my bedroom, my bathroom, everything!” she looked up at him, tears welling, eyes pleading for an explanation. He didn’t have one.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he put his arm around her and guided her to the front door.

Back in her flat, she started to cry uncontrollably. He lay her on the bed and covered her with a blanket. He sat on the bed beside her, and stroked her head until the sobs subsided; she drifted into an exhausted sleep. Shutting the bedroom door, he went into the living room, called Michael, Ned and then the police.

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Chapter Forty-Three He was restless; it was time for the next move; he was anxious to get on with it. He had been planning for long enough; the den was ready, the fridge stocked, they had enough food to last for days and he had ordered in plenty of film and drugs.

He was missing knowing his angel’s every move. Since leaving the spy flat, he had not been able to watch her.

He sat for hours looking at old footage of her bathing, sleeping, reading, eating. He avoided the footage of her with other men, it was too painful, but repeated over and over the footage of the midnight hours he spent with her.

Soon she would be conscious when he touched her, soon she would be begging for him, regretting that she had turned away.

Distributing her photographs was having the desired effect; he had manipulated a media dissection. The Sporjakk campaign was butchered, heads chopped, careers torn, reputations in tatters, the baying press had played into his hands. He had the power to dismember lives through a few visuals, how easy.

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Mission accomplished, his angel’s career was over and her boyfriend had left her, she was vulnerable, ready to be cut. If she disappeared for a few days, no one would miss her; they would assume she was in hiding, lying low, avoiding the furore.

Freshly showered, naked, he paced up and down his flat.

He had done an extra hard work-out that morning; the blood was still pumping around his veins, even after the soothing shower. He was hyped up like a caged animal, pacing from room to room; maybe he shouldn’t have taken that extra amphetamine at breakfast, or was it the steroids. The heart palpitations were noisy in his head, he needed release, now.

He had put in the call an hour ago; what was the bloody delay? It was pissing him off.

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Chapter Forty-Four Cellini’s was packed to the rafters. The weather had helped, it was pouring with rain outside, a surprise summer storm had blown into town, making the idea of being in a warm, cosy restaurant all the more tempting.

Umbrellas were scattered around the reception area, keeping the receptionist busy taping cloakroom tickets to handles. The electricity in the air was tangible, making the clients jumpy and excitable like skittish racehorses.

The smell of wet clothes and appetizing cooking mingled. High-pitched chatter filled the room; only the English could talk about the weather quite so enthusiastically.

There was something snug and comforting about sitting in a restaurant window, looking out at the rest of the world as it rushed by - drowned rats struggling with the elements, bobbing in and out of doorways avoiding sheets of rain, jumping over puddles and side stepping muddy spray from thoughtless cars. Hanging on for dear life to hats, umbrellas and hairdos.

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But today, the girls were not feeling snug or comforted; they were huddled together in a corner table at the back, away from the window and prying eyes. With the onslaught in the newspapers over the past few days Tara had become recognizable. Curiously, people couldn’t make up their mind whether they loved or hated her, thought her sexy cool or disgusting slapper. Helen, of course, loved it; only she could have enjoyed having a prostitute and a porno slapper as girlfriends.

For once, the girls did not need to rush their lunch so that Tara could get back to work, she was on sick leave, ‘sick as a parrot leave’ Helen called it. They ordered a leisurely full three courses, which was unheard of for them, normally having to settle for a quick lunch hour main course and coffee. It felt weird; Tara had to keep telling herself to relax, there was no hurry, she didn’t have a job to rush to.

After the past forty-eight hours, this was just what she had needed, some frivolous TLC time with the girls.

Bored with her situation churning over and over in her brain, she asked them to talk about something else first, so they spent the first hour talking about Josie and her hooker admission.

After watching Tara ‘huff-off’ into a taxi, Josie and Helen had gone back to Helen’s flat that afternoon and drank a few more bottles of vino, while Josie cried her eyes out, admitting everything to a spellbound Helen.

Helen lectured her over and over, building up her esteem.

She encouraged her to kick the feeling worthless rubbish, to look at it differently, she was not being used, nor a victim, she was actually using them.

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Her clients had no love, no value in their selfish lives, they had to buy it, to pay a woman to pretend to like them... how shit is that? Josie had the power, not them; they were sad lonely jerks that would never experience real love, being wanted for who they were, because they had overstepped the mark and lost respect for themselves and women. They had lost the magic of what could really be out there for them, they should be pitied. Having to pay for it was crass.

She reminded Josie that she was loved; her friends cared what happened to her, whatever she did, anyone who had a problem with it was not her friend (Tara took the last comment as a deserved dig at her). Helen did a great job, after a few more glasses of vino, Josie felt much better.

Helen thought the whole thing was brilliant, exciting, she wanted to know all the gory details, Josie or Josephine, had gone up ten notches to icon status, she still loved her knowing the truth, even more so, it seemed.

Josie wondered why she hadn’t confessed before; a huge weight of shame lifted from her shoulders. She felt more positive than she had in years.

“I know you don’t like what I do, T, but that’s the way it is; I luv ya an’ if you can’t accept me, tough, there’s nufin’ I can do; it’s your problem, not mine,” there, she had said it, she couldn’t believe how brave she was being, Helen’s support had been good for her.

“You know I love you, whatever you do. I just don’t like the idea of you selling yourself; you’re better than that. I hate the thought of all those ugly old men groping and doing dodgy shit with you, apart from everything else, 343

it’s dangerous, there are some bad people out there,” she was beginning to sound like her mother, “also, you lied to us all this time about your job in the bloody city…do you know how many times I had to sit listening to you drone on about some boring share deal?”

“But I do dabble in shares, it’s my passion; honestly, I wasn’t lying about that, my share dealings are going to get me out of this game. I’m not doin’ it forever; besides, it’s a young girl’s sport.”

“Well, I bloody well hope so, when I have a kid, you two are going to be godmothers, I can hardly have a bloody prossie as a godparent now, can I? For a start, Mum would kill me…”

They giggled at the thought of Gloria Warr’s haughty face thundering over the christening font of a poor baby with a prostitute godmother. A baby that, throughout its life, would have to carry the heavy, suffocating mantle of being her grandchild. God knows what kind of epileptic fit she was having over her daughter having sex on the front page of newspapers across the nation, Tara had ignored her calls.

“Anyway, I can talk, I’m hardly saintly mother material, no one would want to marry me now, never mind make me the mother of their child.....”

“Rubbish, it will all blow over, no worries,” soothed Josie, patting Tara’s back, topping up their glasses with wine.

“Well, I think Josie’s great, T; in fact I want her to bring me along on one of her jobs. Do you know how much she gets paid? It’s criminal, and I’ve been doing it for free all

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these years. I’m considering sending a back-dated bill to all my ex’s... if I could remember who they were.

Damned cheek!.... all those freebies, I could be a millionairess by now! ooops! oh yeah, I am already,” she giggled, “never mind, I’m still owed, it’s the principle of the thing,” Helen had obviously been finding out all the gory details.

“How is Donal, Mr. BJ, how much should you be getting for that? Weren’t you giving him seven a day at one stage? He doesn’t know how lucky he is,” giggled Tara, enjoying worrying about someone else for a change.

“Well, actually,” Helen faltered, glugging back her wine, “he is no longer; he gave me the push. Said he was beginning to have nightmares about teeth tearing his watsit, so became paranoid about me doing it anymore. I bet he noticed that I kept losing my rhythm. He just wanted straight sex, vaginal warts and all, or we were over. The little shit did some research and lectured me on warts. Said that they were caused by a virus called PVC or HPV, something like that, and could be removed by freezing or laser treatment under local anaesthetic, then just use a condom; can you believe it…he had me booked in for some laser treatment...”

“So, why didn’t you come clean with him that it was a fib,” chuckled Josie.

“Told him to get stuffed…besides, I had met Kevin by then,” she looked up cheekily, knocking back more wine.

“Ok, so what is Kevin into?” Tara was almost too frightened to ask.

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“Golden showers.”

“What?”

“Golden showers, you know… any more wine in that bottle?” Helen lifted her glass towards Josie, who filled it, emptying their second bottle.

“No, I don’t know, is it some kind of pouring champagne all over you?” Tara asked, “yo! an expensive pastime Hel.” Helen and Josie laughed, snorting into their minestrone broth, a perfect starter for a cold rainy day.

“Well, what the fuck is a ‘golden shower’ then?” raising her voice, slightly pissed off that she wasn’t in on the joke.

A waiter had arrived with a third bottle and stood patiently over their table, waiting for one of them to notice him and give him the nod to open it.

“It’s when people urinate on each other, Madam…will this do?” he asked, his posh English accent seeming out of place in Italian terrain. He pushed the wine bottle forward into Tara’s squinting eye line, so that she could read the label, “same again, Madam?”

Tara looked up at him aghast.

“What do you mean, urinate on each other, that’s not very nice, is it?”

“It depends if you are the giver or receiver Madam, did you want fresh glasses with your wine Madam?”

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Helen and Josie were nearly under the table with hysterics. Tara’s face was a picture; she really did look like her mother. The waiter was brilliant, didn’t bat an eyelid, all in a day’s work, his Shakespearian accent (he was a resting actor) made it all the more outrageous.

“No thanks, it’s the same wine, go ahead, what do you mean, giver or receiver?” it dawned on her, “nope, don’t answer that, I get it,” her hand up, palm out, “I couldn’t do that, I mean... I couldn’t pee to order.”

“Drink a gallon of water about half an hour before needed, Madam. I find it’s better than filling up with beer; beer has a nasty yeasty smell, Madam, and gives you wind, which isn’t so nice for the receiver. Can I get you anything else, ladies?” he cleared away debris from their table and waited for their reply.

Taking Tara’s shocked, jaw dropped silence, and the girls’ shaking shoulders, faces hidden behind napkins, as a no, he smiled graciously, bowed and moved on to the next table, tall, elegant and stately, he took their order.

“Hel, how could you do that? Get rid of Kevin pronto…Yuk, that’s disgusting… there is no way you can be godmother if you are still seeing Kevin, still showering,” Tara despaired with her friend, whatever next. “...and who the hell is the wonderful new waiter?” she watched him glide around the restaurant, majestic, dignified, as if in a scene from Julius Caesar, Mark Antony speaking eloquently over Caesar’s corpse...

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears....

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“How much could you charge for that, Josie?” Helen asked.

“HELEN!” Tara shouted.

“T, you can talk, with pictures of you ‘dung punching’ all over the place,” Helen snapped back.

“Where’s the waiter?” asked Tara, in an innocent voice, her eyes searching the restaurant for him. “’Err... sir... excuse me… what’s dung punching?” Tara giggled, pretending to ask him, in a voice just low enough not to be heard. Sending the other two off into hysterics again… napkins covering their faces.

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Chapter Forty-Five The doorbell rang, he jumped.

“About bloody time,” he mumbled as he walked towards the door. Passing the mirror, seeing his reflection he stopped to admire himself... make him wait a little.

His gym workouts had paid off, he had the hard, defined body of an athlete. He loved it, loved running his hands over the taut muscle, following the lines of his six-pack, stroking his sun-bed bronzed skin. A white tan line framed his cock, trimmed curls of pubic hair trailed up his flat stomach. He was perfect.

“God did good when he made me... shame he didn’t get to keep me,” he smiled as he gave his cock a gentle pull, waking it up.

The doorbell rang again, then the doorknocker hammered loudly, his visitor was getting agitated.

“David, David... open up, it’s pouring out here… for Christ’s sake…”

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Seb’s irritated voice shouted through the letterbox. David grinned and walked to the door, pulling it open with such a jerk that a sodden Seb tumbled into the hallway, landing in a heap on the floor.

“Holy moley David, what the....” noticing his host’s state of undress, “oops, sorry, mate; did I catch you in the shower?” he pulled himself up and closed the door.

Leaning back against it, his clothes soaking wet from the downpour, he brushed himself down and he caught his breath.

“It’s cats and dogs out there…” he stopped, noticing the semi lob that David had in store for him.

Since having a taste of David, he could think of nothing else. He had struck gold, why had he waited so long? He was finally being himself and fucking loving it. The buzz of sex stayed in his body 24/7, he couldn’t keep the smile off his face, he wanted to tell everyone, wanted more and more, it was a great drug.

Sometimes though, David would frighten him, he would hold his face up close and take on a trancelike stare deep into Seb’s eyes, as if searching for something at the back of his skull, it was a bit intense, but a turn on at the same time, weird.

“Bloody hell, David, you’re eager, aren’t you... give us a chance to get in the bloody door.”

David was in no mood to wait, he slammed into Seb there in the hallway. Mouth on mouth, hands tearing at clothes, pinning him up against the door. Within seconds Seb was naked, but for a grin and rain-soaked trousers around his ankles.

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Seb loved it; he melted into whatever David wanted, putting up no resistance. Letting his body be stripped, manipulated; as long as David didn’t take that fucking sexy mouth away from his, he didn’t care, he was his slave.

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Chapter Forty-Six “Anyway, I wasn’t dung punching, Hel, I don’t go there, that’s your department… if you don’t shut up, I’m going to ask him what felching is; that’ll keep you quiet.”

“Oh, no, T, don’t you bloody dare… I’m tryin’ to eat ’ere, do you mind, you posh birds are disgustin’… I like this restaurant, would like to come ’ere again! Pulease!” moaned Josie, putting her hand up to Tara’s mouth, playfully trying to stop her talking. Grateful the new waiter had disappeared off to the kitchen with a handful of dirty plates.

“What is felching?” Helen’s curiosity roused.

“Shut up!” both girls shouted at her.

“Later,” promised Tara, winking at her.

“Sex is so bloody difficult,” moaned Helen, now off on one, “so much to learn, I’m never gonna get it right, even

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when I do find the man of my dreams and drag him back to my place, a)…”

She stuck up one finger. “…I hate the sight of my body, all those hanging bits. There is no way I can be on top with the lights on… I have to lie down and suck my tummy in…”

She stuck up a second finger. “b)… I look ridiculous when I come, my face all red and strained like a weightlifter; it’s SO not a good look…

Cecilia strained so much once that she peed all over the guy; she was mortified, he wasn’t that happy either…”

The girls looked confused, who was Cecilia?

“Cecilia, you know the one, I met her at line dancing… anyway, I know they can’t see your face in the 69 position, but I can’t breathe and get claustrophobic. I never have been much good at concentrating on two things at once, too busy wondering what he is up to… so, it’s easier to fake it, looking beautifully serene, with lots of sound effects.”

A third finger. “c)… I can never find the G spot in their peri…perennial thingy. I know it’s under there somewhere and I’m supposed to stroke it, but it’s a mystery to me… I can’t even find my own G spot, what chance have I got… I’m a complete waste of space when it comes to sex. Seb knew it, that’s why he left me…”

Poor Helen, she was having one of her mini-confidence crises, which normally happened mid-cycle and after the 353

first bottle. Seb’s rejection still haunted her. Tara and Josie set about correcting her, pulling her out of her doldrums. “a) The guy is lucky to have you, flab or no flab, men like something to get hold of… b) they love to see your face when you come, you plonker, it’s sexy, it gives them pleasure ’cause they were the stud that made it happen,… what was c)? ... oh yeah… I have no bloody idea where my G spot is, was at the back of the queue when they got dished out… and what the hell is a bloody perennial?,” asked Tara.

“Perineum, Madam, its called perineum,” the dulcet tones of the Shakespearian waiter had returned. He stood over them holding a large silver tray, “the smooth taut area of skin running from the testicles to anus, Madam, one puts pressure on it during ejaculation, stimulating the prostate gland beneath the skin, therefore producing deep orgasm, Madam.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” laughed Josie.

Helen and Tara sat staring up at him. He was wasted working as a waiter; he should have his own TV quiz show.

“It’s actually Nigel, Madam, it’s a pleasure, main course is served.”

Once they started tucking into their plates of delicious food, Tara filled them in on the Italy trip, how wonderful it had been, on the first two days anyway. She made them laugh about Anton’s antics and jealous with Franco’s bathroom scene and shock marriage proposal.

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They fell silent when Maria arrived and gasped when the Ed pictures arrived, putting her budding romance to an end. The newspapers had put her career to an end.

Vulture press, a voyeur pervert and police questioning had put her privacy to an end.

But the good news was there seemed to be no more mice.

“Jesus, life wiv you is never borin’, T…you poor baby, no wonder the mouse moved out. Do you fink the Ed the Head pictures were taken by the same guy or girl? It could be that Maria, you know. She looked pretty evil, and she has ’er nails well and truly into Franco, saw pictures of ’em at the airport after you left, they looked pretty cosy together.”

Josie’s words hurt; she hadn’t seen the airport pictures.

Bloody Iti, even then he was lying to her. To think for a nanosecond yesterday she had thought about getting back with him.

“It must be so spooky, having someone spying on you like that; let me catch him, I’ll cut his balls off,” said Helen protectively.

“Or her,” reminded Josie, “you’ve got to move out, he, she, it might come back.”

“I don’t think it’s a girl, it feels like a guy; I can’t imagine a girl being interested in my bathroom activities; there was a camera over the bath... shit, when I think about it I feel sick,” she paused, staring off into the distance.

“You know, sometimes I had a funny feeling someone had been in my flat, been through my things. Nothing 355

was ever missing but just slightly out of place, you know what I mean… and then there was the put-down phone calls, the damage to the car,” she looked quizzically at them, they nodded, beginning to feel frightened for her.

“Seeing those pictures of Franco and me is so humiliating, I can’t tell you. If I had known I was on camera, I would have at least have held my stomach in, had a wax, and done my hair, I look like The Wreck of the Hesperus.”

Her trial at humour was a good sign, thought Josie; she’ll get through this.

“Well, I think all in all you looked fuckin’ fantastic, and he looked delish, I bet there isn’t an ’ousewife in the land who wouldn’t want to pull ’is plonker. You should make sumfing positive out of this, put some spin on it, ok, so Franco ain’t no saint anymore, but saints are boring; everyone loves a sinner. Sporjakk have even more press now than ever; they should use it in a positive way.”

Josie nudged at Tara, trying to make her see.

“Look, the ’ole flippin country has been tryin’ to ’elp ’im bloody find his bird. Well, now he’s found ’er; what did people fink ’e was gonna do when ’e found ’er, play tiddlywinks? Get a life; ’e was gonna shag the living daylights out of her, a’course. The agency and client were not conning anyone, they were in the dark, you did it on your own, trying to keep your job, so what? Anyone would do the same. They can stand by you and look holier than fucking thou. The charity made a shed load-amoney. The public got entertained. The press sold papers.

Everyone’s happy. No one died for gawd’s sake! If the

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charity don’t like it, he can give the cash to another one that does, HIV or prostate cancer or something.”

Tara sipped her drink, Josie may have a point, with a little creative thinking there could be a way to put a positive spin on it. They discussed the ins and outs for the next hour, formulating the beginnings of a plan. Tara began to see it could work.

“Josie, I love you,” she got up, leaned over the table, and gave her friend a big hug, “you are so right, I’m gonna put this together and give it to the bosses, I love yoooooooooou, group hug, group hug,” she stole the line from Anton. Helen stood and joined in, tears in her eyes.

Diners looked over, wondering what the celebration was.

They laughed away the rest of the afternoon; planning Tara’s come back, calculating the number of BJ’s needed for Josephine’s retirement, and talking Helen out of seeing Kevin again.

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Chapter Forty-Seven

Fifteen years earlier Heddington Forest, Berkshire, England Click, Click.

The sound of the camera’s shutter pulsed through the still forest.

Squinting through the lens, he focused in tight on a gaping wound, his hands trembling… shit, this was good.

The pale pink flesh was already turning blue, the cherryred blood darkening. Autumn leaves whispered in and out of the shot as gusty winds picked up and gently played chase with them across the warm lifeless body.

Click, Click.

Blood-soaked surgical gloves adjusted the picture, slowly, provocatively, bringing the full horror into view.

He caught his breath… beautiful, he smiled… perfectly presented... a textbook dissection...

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The corpse had been laid out for dissection. Dark blood had drained from the wounds, forming a watery, glistening halo around the length of the body, seeping into the soil. A silver tray of blood stained implements lay to the side of the head, a deep incision had been made from the collarbone to pelvis, clothing and skin had been pulled back, pinned layer by layer, precisely positioned for optimum viewing… very neat; master would be pleased, top marks, dear boy!

It was a shame about the putrid smell, but defecation was to be expected when in distress; luckily, it had occurred after sex. He had been surprised to find the pacemaker, the old boy seemed fit for his age.

Forest creatures crawled up from the undergrowth, taking a keen interest in the newly rotting flesh. Flies and bugs vied for position on the seeping wounds and foulsmelling faeces… dinner is served, nature at its recycling best, he smiled.

Click, Click.

The soft clicks of the camera at work were tame in comparison to the agonized screams that had ripped through the trees moments earlier; the Headmaster had been alive during the cutting; it had been a slow death.

The forest heaved a sigh of relief as the torture finally stopped. Its heartbeat slowed to a peaceful rustle of branches and chatter of birds, its memory short, business as usual.

He reached down and pulled the red-handled screwdriver out of the right eye socket. It made a satisfying squelching sound as it wrenched free, torn remains of 359

tissue and retina hung from its tip. Fresh blood oozed from the bony socket, causing a rush of iridescent blowflies seeking to lay their eggs.

Click, Click.

The photographic log complete, he began the cleanup.

Bending to his knees, eyes and hands anxiously searched the forest floor. Piano-playing fingertips ran over dry leaves and twigs until a warm, soft package nudged up wet against him… found it.

He proudly plucked up the trophy and held it high against the sky’s dimming light, congratulating himself on how full it was… my my, I have had some fun.

He pocketed the used condom… we don’t want to leave any tell-tale signs, now, do we?

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Chapter Forty-Eight At lunch Josie had drunkenly promised to let Helen come along on one of her jobs, as a voyeur, if one came up that suited her. One had.

A regular monthly client, Jeff, had a wife who liked to watch while he fucked Josephine. She would stand quietly in the corner and watch while he and Josephine got it on. It was straight sex, nothing kinky, so a relatively easy job. Apparently the wife loved it, got off on seeing her supposedly ‘virile’ man take another woman, in a controlled environment of course, her control, and she and her husband had great sex thereafter on the memory of it.

Although Jeff initially didn’t feel happy about being watched by the wife, there was something instinctively scary about a wife standing over you as you shagged another woman, it was normally a crime that led to being hung, drawn, and quartered, he agreed to go along with it, and the expense, Josephine did not come cheap, initially just to keep her happy. After a while he had started to get 361

hooked on it. He loved the fact that his wife was watching, he liked performing to her, and Josephine was a hell of a sexy woman, a man’s dream, it was a big turnon.

He had called the agency for his regular dose of Josephine, but had requested that she bring another girl to play the part of the wife, as the wife couldn’t make it; she was away visiting her mother. He was now so hooked that he couldn’t get it up without being watched; he needed his monthly treat of ego stroking. Josephine told the agency she had just the girl; it was an easy part for Helen to play, and agreed a good price for her.

She wasn’t sure whether Helen was more excited about earning the money or watching the sex. She had gone bananas with excitement when Josie told her it was on for the next night.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod…where?” she asked excitedly.

“Normally it’s a hotel in Park Lane, I get told the venue about an hour before, are you up for it?”

“You bet, Josie, how exciting, what do I wear?”

“Wifey normally wears a little nightdress, nothin’ fancy.

So wear one under your coat. Now you promise to be quiet as a mouse, Hel; pretend to be playing wiv yaself, fake orgasm when I give you the nod; we will be in and out of there in no time, ok?” Josie instructed the eyepopping, nodding Helen.

“It’s easy money, and try not to larf when I’m doin’ my spiel; the rubbish you have to say to get their rocks off is

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pathetic, but that’s what I’m paid for, ok?” Helen immediately giggled.

Josie was beginning to think it may not be such a good idea, but what the heck, she had been so grateful that Hel had accepted her and her dirty secret. Maybe it would be fun to have her there; it would seem less sordid somehow, sharing it with a mate, what could go wrong?

She got the phone call at 6 p.m.; they were to be at the hotel at 7 p.m. and go straight to room 801.

Helen had been waiting at Josie’s flat with her since 5 p.m.; she had brought two full-length mink coats with her for the pair of them to use, even though it was summer; she thought it would help them look the part. Josie giggled at her romantic view of the game, but played along.

They had got through a bottle of wine, while waiting for the call. Helen’s initial nerves were well and truly put to rest now, the wine had numbed them; she couldn’t wait to get at him or it or whatever it was she was doing. She had that wonderful buzz she craved when she did something new; she felt alive.

Josie eyed her nervously; her friend looked to be enjoying this a little too much, and they hadn’t even started yet. It would not be the first time that evening that the same thought crossed her mind.

In the cab on the way there, Josie reminded her of her duties. Getting her to practice a few moaning sounds to fake her orgasm. The cabbie thought his boat had come in. One bird looked to be wearing a nightdress under her 363

mink coat, and the other was done up to the nines under hers, in a little black dress, stockings, suspenders, the lot, he had sneaked a look at Josie’s long legs as she stepped up into the taxi. Jesus and now they were groaning in the back seat… the boys would never believe this.

On arrival at the hotel, they went straight up to room 801.

Helen, scampering a few steps behind the confident, striding Josephine, was loving her friend’s sudden change in demeanour... so assertive, so classy, so Cleopatraesque … sighed Helen.

Jeff answered the door in his boxer shorts, holding a glass of champagne.

Mmmmm, thought Josie, he doesn’t fork out for that stuff when the wife is here… it’s a bottle of house white and that’s her lot.

“Evening, girls, wow, Josephine, you look great, and your friend is cute,” he purred, the cat that had (or was about to have) the cream. Helen noticed how excited he was already; a little marquee effect was going on in his designer boxers.

“This is…” shit, she hadn’t got a name for Helen, it was not a good idea to use your own name, “this is, ummm…Venus,” it was the first thing that came to mind.

Helen nearly choked, trying not to smirk…Venus, where the hell had that come from? And why was Josie sounding all posh? She had to cough through a smirk that was trying desperately to break into a laugh.

“Venus, meet Jeff,” Josie gave her a dark look of ‘don’t you dare laugh’.

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“Hiiiiii, Jeff,” Helen purred as deeply as she could, furiously fluttering her false eyelashes, overplaying the sex kitten.

She walked seductively past him into the room, making sure she brushed against him as she did so. The excitement level had been sent up a notch. Josie smiled to herself, she was a little over keen, but had the makings of a real pro. She noticed the wife’s chair had been set up in the normal position, the far corner of the room.

Helen surveyed the suite, tutting; it was typically hotel drab, how disappointing. In her opinion most hotels failed miserably at making their rooms cosy and comfortable.

“Let’s breathe some life into this place,” she enthused.

Skipping around the room, she switched off the harsh main light, switched on the soft bedside table lamps, drew the curtains, flicked the music on low, chucked the hideous kitschy bedspreads into the closet, revealing pristine white bed sheets and shunted the two beds together to form an inviting king-size. Voila, a sexy shag den.

“There, that’s better,” she grinned, standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips, proudly surveying her work.

Josie and Jeff stood bewildered, still in the doorway, watching her.

“You don’t have to act quite so much like a wife, dear,” chuckled Jeff.

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“Venus!” Josie almost shouted, “why don’t you sit in the chair, over there,” she pointed furiously at the elegant Prince Albert-style chair in the far corner. This was definitely a mistake; Helen was far too much of an accommodating hostess to be a hooker.

“Oh yes, of course; sorry, Josie…iphine, was just trying to make it a little more welcoming… anyone for champagne?”

“SIT!’ Josie barked, Helen jumped.

Remembering her instruction, she obediently took off her coat, hung it neatly on the back of the chair, and sat like a prim schoolteacher, upright, hands clasped on lap, waiting patiently, smiling sweetly.

Jeff closed the door, and walked to the dressing table where the drinks were laid out, three glasses, an ice bucket and three bottles of champagne, the first of which was almost empty. Jeff was obviously well-relaxed. Not a good sign, Josie thought, it took longer to get them to come when they had had a few, she hoped he hadn’t taken any Viagra.

“My manners, ladies, so sorry, anyone for champers?”

He poured two glasses without waiting for their reply.

Helen, too scared to speak after Josie had shouted at her, nodded furiously, Jeff handed her a glass.

“Cheers… err…Venus,” clinking his glass to hers, “I hope you enjoy our little show, dear, feel free to touch yourself while you watch, it’s most enjoyable for me to see, so don’t be shy.”

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Fat chance of that, thought Josie, she could see this going pear shaped. She had better hump the guy quickly and get out of there, before Helen started to take over again and then they would be there all night. She let her mink slink seductively off her shoulders to the floor, revealing her little black dress, stockinged legs, and ridiculously high stilettos.

“Now, Jeff, let’s get down to it, baby, I am one horny bitch right now, I need what you have to offer me,” she leaned against the wall that faced the bed, legs apart. “... and I know what you have, big boy, I can see you’re pleased to see us.”

She immediately had all his attention; he sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, sipping on his champagne, grinning, he loved his monthly Josephine sessions. She held his gaze sexily and started to brazenly feel her body in time to the music. Her hands started at her neck and rubbed down slowly over her breasts, taking time to tweak and circle her nipples, then down over her waist and on to run the length of her thighs.

“You like what you see, Jeff? Is this what you want?”

Her hands lifted the hem of her dress and revealed her black lacy stocking tops.

“Have you missed me?”

She rebalanced her body on tottering stilettos, spreading her legs further apart, increasing the slut effect. His eyes widened; he took a quick intake of breath.

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“Oh yes!” he groaned.

One hand pulled the dress up to her waist, exposing tiny black panties; the other rubbed herself through the material. Backward and forward, dragging the small triangle of silk with her fingers, playing peek-a-boo with the pink soft lips below. She held his gaze as she reached beneath the silk and eased her finger up inside. Her eyes closed and her head fell back as she let out a low moan, barely audible. Her breathing built as she teased in and out, enjoying her touch.

“Just making myself wet for you, baby,” she moaned, sliding two fingers inside.

Jeff was chomping at the bit, he could barely contain himself, he was so eager to get at her, but he knew that wasn’t allowed, he had to sit and wait.

Helen was gob-smacked; this was her mate sliding up and down the wall like some sort of sex siren. Boy, she was good, no wonder she could charge so much, Jeff was dribbling. She had just turned the act on like flicking a switch; she was incredible. Helen had an urge to giggle; it sounded so funny hearing her friend talk posh and dirty, but she didn’t think Josie or Jeff would appreciate it.

Josie gave Helen a sideways ‘get on with it, girl’ look, in between groans.... oh gawd, thought Helen, forgetting she was there for a purpose... better get started.

Hesitantly, she started to copy Josie, following her hands over her body through her nightdress, it seemed like a good place to start... mmmm, this is nice. Watching Josie was getting her a little warm; she had never seen a girl up

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close like this before, after the initial embarrassment it was horny to watch, there was a buzzing energy in the room.

She found herself looking at Josie as Josephine, not as her best mate. As a sexy stranger with a great body and beautiful face. She wanted to reach out and touch her... ohmigod… this is weird.

“Look at Venus, Jeff, she’s beginning to get excited… do you think she will enjoy this… watching you, Jeff, watching you fuck me… watching you go right up deep inside me, right to the top… oooh, I’m soooo ready now, so wet…”

Josie brought her finger up to her mouth and licked it seductively with her tongue. Smearing the juice around her lips, she smiled at Jeff, explaining, “it’s an aphrodisiac, Jeff... now, come and kiss me.”

This did something to Helen, a little squeal came from the corner, she couldn’t help herself. They both looked over at her; she was a sight. She had slid down in the chair, almost falling off the edge, legs akimbo, her nightdress dragged up to her waist showing she was wearing nothing underneath. Her hair over her face, her breathing laboured, and her fingers busy between her legs.

Oops, peaking a little early , thought Josie, but Jeff was loving it; it was more than the wife ever did. Maybe she should visit her mum more often.

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“Change of plan, Josephine... get Venus to kiss you, she’s very turned on by you, baby… get her to strip you, then you can come and fuck me.”

This was not the plan, Josie weighed up the situation quickly ... ok, a quick kiss, a quick strip, hump him, and outta here, that wasn’t so bad, and Venus, err… Helen, did look good like that. She was a little turned on herself, which was nice for a change; she may actually enjoy this job.

She looked over at Helen for a sign as to whether she was willing. She whispered gently, “Venus, you want to kiss me?” she said it so softly they had to strain to hear her, “you want to taste me?”

Helen stopped in her tracks, legs still akimbo, hands fell still... ohmigod. She hadn’t expected to play a larger part in the game; she hadn’t expected to get turned on watching Josie either. The truth began to dawn on her, fuck, why hadn’t she seen it before? It may be an act for Josie, but she wanted to touch her, wanted it badly. This was no longer a game; if she crossed the room now, she was crossing a line, putting her hand in the fire, risking a friendship. Josie was beautiful; sexy as hell and the greatest friend she had ever had... this could blow it. She had been so bored with men, and Josie had been under her nose all the bloody time. Josie was what she wanted... fuck!

“Venus, I’m getting lonely over here, come and kiss me, you know you want to, and I taste soooo good.

Mmmmm… I know you want to.”

Josie teased Helen, squeezing her tits provocatively through the little black dress. She pulled the straps down

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over her shoulders, releasing them into view, pushing the dress down to bunch at her waist. She cupped them up in her hands and offered them to Helen.

The excitement in the air was tangible, Jeff couldn’t believe his luck. These two were something else, Josephine the temptress and Venus the little virgin, not being able to make up her mind whether to jump or not.

He was getting so hard he would burst any minute, they were good actresses - little did he know.

Finally making her mind up, Helen stood, stepped out of her nightdress, and kicked off her shoes. She stood brazen, naked, and calmly drank her champagne, in no hurry, enjoying their eyes on her, their baited breathe.

She slowly walked around Jeff to the champagne bucket on the dressing table, as she passed, she let her hand intimately trail the length of his thigh, she refilled her glass. Turning to Josie, hand on hip, she stood in front of her and scanned the length of her beautiful body, taking her time, the tip of the champagne glass resting on her bottom lip, as she contemplated how best to devour her victim.

Josie began to feel uneasy; things had gone too far; it was only a game, but her friend looked serious. Jeff was cataclysmic with excitement. Helen was blocking his view so he jumped from the bed to the dressing table, leaning against it, getting a better look at what he was paying for, up nice and close. The air was tight.

Helen filled her mouth with champagne and passed the glass to Jeff. Josie backed up against the wall, maybe she should stop this. Helen put her hands up and cupped her neck and head, pulling her face to hers, she pressed her 371

mouth against Josie’s and kissed her, transferring the champagne slowly from one mouth to the other, letting it trickle from lips, down chins, and onto chests.

“Yeah, girls, lovely jubbly,” Jeff’s cock was now in his hand, this was a big fucking turn-on.

The heady taste of pussy juice and champagne sent the girls wild. Something let loose, something clicked between them, they couldn’t stop. They ate each other, smothering each other in kisses, penetrating tongues, biting mouths, greedy hands, soft caresses, rough clawing, delving fingers; they couldn’t get enough.

Jeff was well and truly forgotten. He didn’t mind, he came three times watching them. The wife would love this…

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Chapter Forty-Nine Burp burp. Her phone bleeped the frog sound that meant she had a text message. Bloody hell, if it’s the office chasing her again she would scream. She had been sitting at her computer putting together a draft report for the new spin idea; she hoped it would save the day. She would email it to the bosses for initial approval and then meet with them. Picking up the phone, she punched through to retrieve the text message. It was from Seb. ‘need to meet asap re sporjakk 7pm at...’

It gave an address she recognized as around the corner from her flat.

Great, she had wanted to pass the new ideas by him and would bring a copy of the report with her. Looking at her watch, she had an hour to finish it and then see him, perfect. She picked up speed and rushed through the final edits. Good old Josie; this just may save the day, she loved her, hooker or not.

The document complete, she attached it to an email addressed to Pete Wells, and copied it in to Seb. 373

‘I have put together some ideas to help with the Sporjakk problem, see attached report. I am truly sorry to have caused this furore, but with the right spin it may be salvageable. Call to meet up. Tara.’

By now Pete would have left the office, but at least he would get it first thing in the morning. Pressing ‘Send’, she said a little prayer. Remembering Seb, she texted him a reply: ‘ok, am on my way, Tx’ She pulled a comb through her hair and touched up her lipstick. She grabbed her keys and phone, and ran out of the flat.

Following her curiosity, before leaving the building, she slipped upstairs to the next floor, to see if anything was happening at the pervert’s flat; she saw that the police had cordoned it off, with yellow tape across the door frame. Oh well, at least that meant that no one was in there. She hadn’t heard from the police since she and Franco had given statements, she wondered what they were doing about it, if anything.

“Now, which number Brompton Court Road was it?

448A. Strange Seb should not just pop around here, I’m only round the corner... boys are so bloody lazy. At breakneck speed, she rushed out of main door, and down the steps, too fast for the sleepy photographers there to snap her, and off down the street, wishing she had worn a coat; it was colder than she had expected. Luckily Seb was only two minutes away.

Shivering with cold, she finally found the house number.

Guessing that 448A would be the basement flat, she went

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there first... yep correct. Knocking on the door, she felt a little unsure, what the hell was Seb doing in a grimy place like this? Damn, she had forgotten to bring the report, she had left it on the table… oh well, she would just have to verbally explain it, and he had it on email.

The door sprung open, making her jump. A tall, darkhaired, good looking man stood in front of her, beaming.

“Hi, you must be Tara, Seb said you were popping over, do come in.”

He seemed so familiar; did she know him from somewhere? No, she would have remembered, he was so handsome. Probably one of Seb’s model friends, he was cute!

“Yes, that’s right, thank you.”

Beaming back at him, she walked in. She felt a shiver go down her spine, someone walking over her grave again.

“Seb has just popped out; he’ll be here in a min, told me to look after you until he got back. What’s your tipple, a glass of wine do you? Have just opened a nice bottle of Chateau Petrus’96,” he chattered on as she followed him into the stunningly beautiful flat.

“Yes, that would be perfect, I could certainly do with a drink, it’s been a long day… what a lovely flat you have, did you do this yourself?… sorry, what did you say your name was?”

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“I didn’t… but it’s David,” turning, he looked closely at her face, for a trace of recognition, “David,” he repeated, but there was none.

He felt angry; how dare she forget me? The bitch, she had no idea who he was, and yet she took up his every thought, every minute of his night and day. He lived his life through her, around her, because of her, she couldn’t give a toss. He would make her pay.

“Take a seat, Tara, I’ll get you a drink… on the sofa, make yourself at home,” he waved her over to the sofa, where he had straddled the lovely Seb an hour before. He could still hear Seb’s cries of pleasure.

“Now, take a shower, you dirty boy, before you’re late for your little drinks party, Sebastian…,” he had teased, giving Seb’s ass a final slap.

“Ouch, that hurt, you bastard; you sure you won’t come, David? You never know, you may like it, bunch of celebs will be there.”

“Nah, not my scene, bunch of boring posers,” David scoffed.

“We could stand at the opposite ends of the room and pretend we don’t know each other, if you’re worried about others seeing us together. Then we could rendezvous in the Gents for a quick one, go on, you know you’d like it.”

But David was having none of it; he had better things to do. While Seb was in the shower, he had used Seb’s phone to text Tara. The Devil was setting his trap; it was his time to have her. He was feeling horny again, already.

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“You do have some lovely art, David,” commented Tara politely, bringing him back to reality.

“Yes, I collect beautiful things, Tara, you are very beautiful, you know… how long have you known Seb?” quickly changing the subject before she could reply to his obvious flirtation.

“Err, oh, years, from school, I guess, we work together; he’s a great photographer… do you know him well?”

Tara couldn’t place him, she was sure she knew him from somewhere, why was he familiar?

“Oh yes, very well,” teasingly.

“How do you know him, are you in the business too?”

Tara asked, making polite conversation, where the bloody hell was Seb? She glanced at her watch.

“Oh, we just fuck the ass off each other, a couple of days a week.”

David walked over to the sofa and passed one of the two glasses of wine he was holding to Tara. It took her a couple of seconds to grasp what he had just said, as she was concentrating on taking the rather full glass of wine from him, without spilling it on the beautiful cream sofa.

“Pardon?” she hadn’t quite heard him right, obviously.

God, she had sex on the brain these days…

“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked again.

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“Seb and I fuck each other, we’re lovers, and jolly good he is at it too, I might say,” David plonked down on the sofa opposite her. The coffee table separating them.

“Oh, I’m sorry (typical bloody English, always apologizing, she could hear Franco say) I didn’t know he was… um… you know,” she stuttered.

“A faggot?” David helped. “Err, no… um… just, that way inclined, you know.”

Jesus, this was embarrassing. Thanks Seb, let me know, why don’t you; I don’t give a monkey’s what you are, but don’t let me find out from a stranger, you little shit; gonna kill you when I see you, where the hell are you?

She shifted uneasily on the sofa. David was suffocating her with his staring eyes, she felt under the microscope.

Let’s change the subject.

“No, I’m happy for him. As long as he is happy, that’s all I want. Have you lived here long, David? It’s quite a nice area, isn’t it? I live just around the corner, you know, wouldn’t live anywhere else, everything on my doorstep.

What do you do for a living?”

She was beginning to ramble nervously.

“Oh, a bit of this and that. My hobby is photography, film. That’s how I know Seb. Would you like to see some of my work? Finish your wine and I’ll show you my portfolio.”

He was back into charming host mode. She felt more comfortable, talking about Seb taking it up the ass was not what she had expected. God, poor old Helen; Seb

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didn’t want her; he wanted a bloke, bet she doesn’t know.

This revelation would be good for her; all those years of pining after him had destroyed her confidence. She was not an unattractive, unwanted failure; she had just been trying to have sex with a gay. No wonder the BJ’s and stockings didn’t work, all he wanted was a wiener and boxer shorts. She couldn’t wait to tell the girls.

She watched David as he reached for the bottle; Helen was right, all the best-looking ones were gay. What a secretive little dog Seb was; she would never have guessed. He had good taste, this guy was uber sexy, dropdead gorgeous; bet they had fun. Why was he familiar, where had she seen him before?

Ignoring her protestations, David topped up her glass.

She wanted to be sober when discussing the Sporjakk job with Seb. Where the hell was he?

“Now come through to my studio, I call it my den; let me show you my portfolio, it’s a bit amateurish, nowhere near as good as Seb, but I enjoy it, it keeps me out of trouble,” he chattered, as light-heartedly as he could muster, keeping the excitement out of his voice. She was here, in his home, alone, his. Her penance was oh so near completion, after all this time. He could barely keep his voice from shaking.

“Oh, why don’t you bring the book out here? We can look at it on the coffee table,” she didn’t want to go to any ‘den’ in a strange flat with anyone, not even this handsome stranger.

“Actually, the portfolio is not a book; it’s more a work of art, covering a wall. Can’t bring the wall to you, I’m 379

afraid. It will give us something to do while we wait for Seb. He should be here soon. It’s ok, I’m not going to ravish you, darling, if that’s what you’re worried about, you don’t have the appendage I look for in a lover, you’re safe,” he laughed teasingly.

She suddenly felt stupid, of course she was safe, he was gay. He was just being a good host, killing time while waiting for Seb. What the hell was she thinking, over paranoid or what, not everyone was out to get her. They laughed together, as he led her along the corridor to the den.

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Chapter Fifty With his arm firmly around her shoulder, he steered her down the corridor to the den. As they passed the front door Tara half wondered if she should do a runner, but chided herself for having an over active imagination, she had seen too many murder mysteries. David pushed her on, giggling about Seb always being late. She carried on, glass in hand, politely feigning interest in his bloody pictures... come on Seb, where the hell are you?

He opened the door of the den and gently ushered her into the dimly lit room, quickly closing the door behind them. A little too quickly for her liking, she heard a double click sound and turned to look at the door... was that a lock turning? She couldn’t see. He pushed her into the middle of the room, reached up and pulled the chord of a spotlight that hung overhead. A bright light hit the wall facing them, a montage of blurred shapes jumped to life.

It took a moment to focus; she blinked, adjusting to the glare. The wall was a jumbled mass of black-and-white 381

photographs, scattered manically, across the wall. For some reason she had expected ‘order’ in his work, he was so immaculate in his appearance, the chaos surprised her.

At first glance, she thought she was viewing a collection of police crime scene photos. She looked at David quizzically; he was smiling proudly at her. Was this some kind of law enforcement project? Now she had been watching too much crime TV. She stepped closer to the wall, concentrating on individual pictures, one by one, touching them as she went. Her eyes began to dart backwards and forwards, not believing what she saw.

The first pictures she focused on were of an elderly, smartly dressed man, lying on a bed of autumn leaves in a forest, he seemed to be in pain. There were various close-ups of areas of his body haphazardly pinned across each other. She moved in closer still. His pale face and watery eyes were distorted in agony, saliva dribbled from the side of his mouth. His hands were scratched and bloodied, his broken nails black with dirt, his fingers strained as if clawing at something. Red gashes tore into the soles of his feet.

One picture showed him lying on his back, his tie placed neatly over his right shoulder, his starched white shirt opened to the last button at the collar, exposing sparse grey hair on aging sallow skin, a collection of marks formed the shape of a heart on his chest… were they cigarette burns?

Another shot showed the man lying on his stomach, the bottom of his suit jacket had been lifted neatly up, exposing his buttocks. His trousers had been cut open in line with the crack of his bottom cheeks and pinned back, sullied white underpants also cut, revealing pinky yellow

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saggy flesh. Dark stains ringed his anus, blood trickled down from the opening, slicing cuts snaked across exposed skin.

As she moved along the wall the pictures got worse, she could no longer look. He had been tortured and then dissected; she couldn’t work out at which point he had died. His torso had been cut from neck to groin and pinned back; his eyes had been pierced with something.

He lay in a pool of blood. Tara cupped her mouth as bile rose to her throat. What the fuck was this, he was mad.

She was standing next to a madman, shut in a room with him. She looked up into his face. He was watching her intently, waiting for her reaction.

“Well, what do you think Tara, good, eh…?”

He smugly toasted the wall with his glass and knocked back a slug of wine.

“Jesus, David, what the hell is this? Did you do this?

Who is he?”

She suddenly felt faint, she was going to be sick, she turned to the door.

“Tara, you don’t believe they are real, do you? Wow, that’s great, that means they are very good... hell no, they were for a shoot, that guy is a model, he’s acting… brilliant isn’t he, eh, fantastic makeup, so life-like,” he sniggered, “and you fell for it, brilliant stuff.”

His laugh unnerved her, even if they were fake, the pictures were sick. How can he be proud of them? It was 383

time she got out of here. She wasn’t going to wait for Seb any longer, enough was enough.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go, David, I can’t wait for Seb any longer.”

She turned to the door, the airless room closing in on her.

“Err… before you go, dear, take a look at this wall, it’s not half so… err… nasty.”

He reached up and pulled the chord of another spotlight, which lit up the wall to their left. It had been in darkness, she hadn’t noticed it. Still feeling giddy, she turned to see what he was talking about, a second mass of black-andwhite shots leapt to life. She recognized them immediately as the same style of pictures given to the papers, grainy, soft focus, stills of a film. Her wine glass dropped to the floor.

There were hundreds of photographs, all of her. Walking in the street, in the local coffee shop, coming out of her office, jumping into a taxi, in her flat, cooking in the kitchen, on the sofa watching TV, chatting on the phone, at her computer. Nothing was sacred, there were shots of her naked in her bathroom, bathing, showering, plucking her eyebrows, shaving her legs, on the toilet wiping her ass. Then there were the shots of her in the bedroom, these must have been his favourites, they had been blown up to a larger size print. She was sleeping, having sex, her face contorted in ecstasy as her lovers satisfied her.

She recognised the bodies of Ed and Franco strewn across her in various poses, but there was one body she didn’t recognise.

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She stepped closer to the wall, searching for more pictures of the same body. Her hand went to her mouth in horror, she let out a small cry, it was David. David was fucking her, in her bed, in her flat. How could this be, she hadn’t seen him in years... and he was gay. She let out a nervous laugh; it was another trick, super imposed with computer wizardry.... fuck him, how dare he, the bastard got off on this shit.

She turned on him.

“You bastard, it was you taking pictures in the flat upstairs, you sent them to the papers, who the fuck do you think you are?”

Before he had a chance to reply, her fists rained down on him in a torrent of fury. He hadn’t expected this. She beat his face and chest as hard as she could, shunting her knee up hard between his legs, jamming it into his groin. He doubled up in pain; as his face went down, she used her knee again to kick up into his jaw, forcing his head upwards, throwing him backwards, he staggered and fell.

Shocked at her sudden rush of power, she stood watching him fall... what the fuck do I do now? She ran to the door, tugging at it, it was locked.... shit…where’s the key?

“Give me the key, you bastard… before I fucking kill you.”

She stood over him, screaming like a woman possessed.

He lay groaning on the floor, curled up in the foetal position, nursing the agonizing pain in his genitals. She fell to her knees and scrambled through his pockets, all 385

the while screaming at him to give her the key. There was no key, she needed a code number.

Then it started, it came from nowhere, she felt woozy, heavy, out of focus. Her body began to lose its strength, something was wrong. She knew she had to keep going, to get out of there, but she couldn’t move, she had no control, what the hell was going on? She lost consciousness and dropped to the floor in a heap beside David.

About bloody time, he thought. They lay side by side in silence as he gathered his thoughts and waited for the pain in his balls to subside. Her knee kick to the jaw had sent a tooth through the edge of his tongue, he tasted the iron of blood in his mouth... shit, she was a fighter. He turned to look at her, he had planned the dosage almost perfectly, a few minutes earlier would have been better; he would make it stronger next time.

He was going to have fun with this little vixen.

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Chapter Fifty-One Seb arrived at the drinks reception late, revellers were beginning to leave. It had begun to rain. He ran, head down, from the warm taxi up the grand steps of the Buckingham Hotel. Soaked, bored, paparazzi huddled in groups at the entrance, waiting to snap celebrities. A flurry of flashes followed him as he ran past security. He was considered a colourful B celebrity, and was enjoying every minute of it. Although the Sporjakk campaign had hit a bump, no one was in any doubt that his photographs were great. Anyway, hey, what the hell, it was all publicity after all.

He had been having so much fun with the ‘Dirty David’ recently that he didn’t care about the campaign. He had a scary thought... now those pictures would cause a stir; luckily they would never see the light of day.

Joining the throng of ‘beautiful’ people in the majestic ballroom, he noticed Franco’s shaggy head of hair across the sea of faces... great, he’s come. He had been enjoying Franco’s company more and more recently. If he were honest, he had a small crush on the guy, but it was 387

harmless; Seb knew Franco’s tastes and respected them.

They could still hang out together; Franco was cool, intelligent, and warm-hearted. He suspected that Franco enjoyed being with him to be closer to Tara, but he would never admit it, not even to himself.... shit, the dreaded Maria is with him.

As he got nearer, Maria’s immaculately coiffured head bobbed into view; she was standing with a few ‘faces’.

They were being entertained by the mind-blowing magician, David Redfearn. Seb had seen him perform a few times; he was popular on the celeb circuit; from what he could see David was doing the incredible champagne bottle out of the balloon trick; it would keep Maria amused for a minute, while he stole Franco away.

Franco, looking pissed off, stood on his own, aside from the group; he was grateful to see Seb and opened his arms wide as he arrived.

“Hey Irish, how’s it going?”

This narked Maria; Franco only seemed to be happy in Seb’s company these days. “’ello, mate,” Seb beamed at him, giving him a big macho back-slapping hug, “let’s go get a drink, I’m parched… come on wit ya.”

With an arm around Franco’s shoulders, he manoeuvred him neatly away to the bar area, waving a dismissive “Hiya, Maria” in her direction. She winced with displeasure, but good old David Redfearn pulled her back into participating in the trick, she couldn’t follow them.

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“Howya doin, mate? Still with her royal highness I see… you can do better than that, boy, and you know it,” Seb always got straight to the point, it was one of the reasons Franco enjoyed his company.

“Yeah, I know, but I can’t be bothered to find someone else, and I don’t want to be on my own right now; it’s easier, I just feel numb, Seb,” he looked around the room as if searching for Tara, “the only thing that’s going well is the footy, thank God for that.”

Seb knew. Franco was being trashed on the front pages of the papers, for the Sporjakk saga and sainted on the back, for his performance on the pitch. He had the determination from hell to get the ball in the back of the net. His numerous goals were in reply to the barrage of insults he received from opposing fans. He had the last laugh; they were unwittingly improving his game. His immersion into work was a form of running away, but it was doing him no harm professionally. The Club had taken the line to ignore the front pages and back him all the way. Maria, on the other hand, was beginning to get good press; she had been seen as a saint to stand by him, to forgive him for his indiscretion with the Sporjakk Girl.

“Never mind, mate, whatever gets you through. Listen, I had a call from the agency in the taxi. Apparently, Tara has come up with a brill idea, putting a positive spin on the Sporjakk baloney, turning it round to make us all heroes again. Don’t worry me old son, you’ll have the ‘readers wives’ chasing after ya in no time. I’ll catch up with her and see what she’s cooking up, the girls a fighter, I’ll give her that.”

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Franco flinched at the sound of her name. He hadn’t seen her since they checked out the spy flat. He had stayed with her until she calmed down, stroking her face, hushing her like a baby. He had wanted to jump on the bed beside her, to hold her, but it would not have been a good idea; she probably would have given him a right hook and cried rape, with the state she was in. When the police came, he had given his statement and sneaked out quietly, leaving a policewoman to take care of her.

“That would be good, I’m fed up with the verbal I’m getting, and feel shitty about the effect on the Charity. I will never be asked to do a Charity gig again, that’s for sure, unless it is for shagaholics anonymous,” they laughed.

“You know, matey, you should get back with Tara; you two were good together.”

Seb, hearing a distant phone ring in the crowd, remembered to turn off his cell phone; it was crass to take calls at parties. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He had a text message; speak of the Devil, it was from Tara. ‘ok, am on my way, Tx’ What the hell did that mean? It had been sent to him half an hour ago, he hadn’t heard it. Silly mare, she’s sent it to the wrong person, he’d better let her know. He went to type her a message; his last sent message was still in the message box… he didn’t recognize it as his own. ‘need to meet asap re sporjakk 7pm at...’

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Chapter Fifty-Two Helen and Josie fell out of the hotel room, giggling. They ran down the corridor to the lift, Josie’s mink trailing behind her as she scrambled to put on a shoe, Helen, naked beneath her coat, desperately trying to button up.

Collapsing into the privacy of the lift, the doors closing behind them, they screamed with excitement at each other.

“Oh my God Josie, oh, sorry… Josephine. What the hell was that? Jeff will never be the same again,” Helen’s hands covered her giggling mouth.

“NEVER am I gonna bring you out wiv me again…Venus. We stayed for four hours, we only got paid for one hour, you’re gonna bankrupt me… you’re not supposed to enjoy it quite so much!” Josie reorganized her dishevelled appearance in the mirror, realigning her stocking tops, amazed they had not laddered with all the action.

In her haste to leave she had stuffed her panties into her purse. Pulling them out, she awkwardly balanced on one stiletto heel then the other, stepping into them, managing not to topple. She dragged the black lace up her legs and wriggled it into position.

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Helen watched, anxious the doors wouldn’t open before her friend had finished. She had left her nightdress behind in the rush to get out before Jeff asked for more. Her coat thankfully covered her state of undress; no one would suspect her naked beneath it.

The doors opened onto the hotel’s buzzing reception area. A glamorous elderly American couple, the man in a smart cowboy hat, and a young porter were waiting patiently for the lift, their luggage trolley stacked high with matching tartan luggage.

They stood aside to let Helen and Josie step out of the lift, cool, calm, and collected, not a whiff of suspicion re the chaos moments earlier. Helen, desperately trying keep up with Josie striding through the lobby, looked back over her shoulder to see the young porter pick something up off the lift floor just as the doors were closing, the elderly couple were peering over his shoulder.

She recognised it as the pack of three bright yellow banana flavoured condoms, magnum sized, ribbed for maximum arousal, Josie had in her purse. They must have dropped out... well, we certainly hadn’t needed those, poor Jeff didn’t get a look in, Venus kept Josephine all to herself!! The young porter flushed a deep red and quickly stuffed the condoms into his waistcoat pocket.

The American lady twinkled at her cheeky eighty year old husband, as he wound the boy up, doffing his hat.

“S’okay son, you keep ‘em, the wife’s not keen on banana, and that ribbin’ plays havoc with her dentures”.

Outside, Josie hailed a black cab; they piled in the back with relief.

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“Let’s go back to my place Josie, and have a nightcap, I can’t go to sleep now, I’m too hyped up, please, please…,” Helen begged.

“Ok, ok, but not for long, I’m knackered and need a shower,” fearing she was making a second mistake of the night.

Josie redirected the taxi driver. They sat back in the cab, the soothing chug of the engine calming them. London looked magical at night, the streets, buildings, and monuments dressed in gold yellow lights. They didn’t talk, just enjoyed being near each other, silently watching the view, as the city rushed past dirty cab windows.

Helen had never felt so happy, so complete, was she in love with a woman?

Her flat was the top floor of a large period block, overlooking Hyde Park. The views were spectacular. A large terrace ran along the length of the floor, accessed through French windows off three bedrooms, a dining room, and living room. It was a second living area, with comfortable sun beds, sofas, tables, and chairs and a host of overflowing plant and tree pots. Through the summer, what little summer they had, she lived on the terrace; it was the main room of the home. The two sun beds lounged snugly at one end, private, perfect for nude sunbathing. She would sometimes sleep there all night, watching the stars and waking up to the sound of birds. It was high enough to lose the city noise, Knightsbridge traffic reduced to a soft hum.

The girls made their way up the large central staircase.

An old-fashioned gated lift ran down its centre but they 393

decided to run, Josie said it was good for their thighs.

Shoes in hand, they chased each other to the top, the plush red carpet feeling good under their aching stiletto tired feet.

“Beat you… you lazy old dog,” yelped Helen as she fell onto her front door, panting and sweating. Fumbling for her key, she opened the door; a wheezing Josie leaned against the wall behind her.

“Not so much of the ‘old’ thank you, God I’m so effing unfit,” she panted, “I need to get back to the gym, but it’s bloody boring runnin’ up steps and ridin’ bikes that go nowhere. If you did this staircase run every day, you’d be fit as a butcher’s dog… not in a fur coat though, darlin’ s’not a good idea.”

Josie rested her head back against the wall, stared up at the ceiling, and giggled as her mink slid off her shoulders to the ground, for the second time that night.

“Oops, there it goes again,” she laughed, remembering Jeff’s face.

Helen looked back at her as she punched in the code for the alarm. God, she was beautiful. A gushing sensation rushed through her body... shit, what was happening, where were all these feelings coming from, had they been there all along, just staring her in the face?

The girls dragged themselves into the flat, landing unceremoniously on a sofa each. Helen stared at Josie as she closed her eyes and got her breath back; she was looking at her in a new light; it all seemed so obvious, so right; did Josie see it?

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“Hey darlin, I need a shower, can I borrow something to wear?” Josie jumped up, and went into bathroom; she stank of champagne and sex and felt trussed up in her stockings.

Helen gave her a pair of pink pyjamas, and while she showered, prepared food and drink, she thought they ought to stay on champagne, as they had been on it all night... rude not to… she opened a chilled bottle and pulled out smoked salmon out of the fridge.

It was a lovely evening, the rain had stopped; still wearing the mink coat, she took the tray out onto the terrace, lay it on a coffee table between the two loungers, and lit a few candles. She wiped off the rain from the sun beds and threw pillows and blankets over them. They would be cosy as hell, she thought, wondering why she was going to all this trouble.

She then jumped into the shower, scrubbed up, emerged ten minutes later in a baggy old nightshirt to find Josie lying out on the lounger sipping champagne, looking up at the stars. A classical string quartet soothed from the CD player.

“Don’t larf, I fort we needed a bit of sophistication, babes,” Josie explained, “but, honestly ‘el, ave you got anything else besides classical stuff? I can’t pronounce half the names in your CD collection,” Helen shook her head, “no worries, it’s nice, I’ve put it on low, we don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”

Helen giggled, her mum had got her into classical music, it had always soothed her. She jumped on the bed beside Josie’s, snuggled up under the blanket and reached for 395

the glass that had been poured for her. They lay in silence, looking up at the clear sky; they could just make out Venus as it twinkled beside a crescent moon. The light fairy notes of the solo violinist tripped along the terrace and floated up into the night sky. The girls lay quietly enjoying the magic.

There had been a subtle gear change between them. They both sensed it, but neither wanted to broach the subject.

They had had sex, great sex, loving, passionate; downright dirty sex that they had thoroughly enjoyed.

This was new territory, and felt very weird for two girls whose main topic of conversation had always been men, men, and more men.

Champagne did its trick of loosening the tongue, eventually Helen broke the ice, too shy to look at her friend, she spoke up to the moon.

“You were bloody fucking fantastic Josie; I loved every minute of it. What a great act, I couldn’t believe it was my mate doing all that sexy stuff; where did you learn it, whore school?”

She wanted more of what they had just had, wanted to reach out and touch Josie, but didn’t know how. How the hell do you tell a woman you want her? ... shit, this is weird. She had never thought about touching a woman before. Maybe it was just a phase like all her other sexual exploits. Ironically, this was the sort of stuff she would normally discuss with Josie.

“It’s just a job, a game you ’ave to act out, but thanks, I’ve ’ad a lot of practice. Jeff enjoyed it, he got much more than ’is money’s worf… he’s gonna want that treatment every time now, ’el, the poor wife won’t get a

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look in… unless he wants me to roger the wife, oh gawd!” Josie giggled into her champagne glass, emptying her second.

“I’ll do it again!” Helen jumped in, a little too quickly, “any time, I loved it,” she blushed, but it went unnoticed in the dark. “’el, it won’t necessarily be like that every time, tonight was nice ’cause it was new to ya... and Jeff was not a fat, smelly, ugly jerk. If you ’ave to do it night after night to order, it loses its mystique, I can tell you… it’s whoring, a man is paying you to…”

“Enjoy myself… what can be wrong with that? I had a great time,” enthused Helen.

“Yeah, but it’s not always like that... we’re not doing it again, you asked me to let you in once, and I’ve done it, end of. It’s not a game; it can be violent, frightening, disgusting. Sometimes I get ’ome and am physically sick… it was a one-off, ’el, leave it.”

Helen feared rejection more than anything; the old feeling of worthlessness began to wash over her, tears welled, panic began to build. She couldn’t let this go, if it was a man, what would she do? But women weren’t like men. Surely a woman wouldn’t fall for the flirty stuff? If it were a man, she would let her body do the talking, play with him a little, expose some flesh, flatter his ego, sit on his lap. But a woman would laugh at behaviour that obvious, wouldn’t she?

Stretching out on the bed, she decided to give the seduction routine a try.

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“Yeah, you’re right, guess I got overexcited,” Helen agreed, sounding almost bored.

She kicked off her blanket as if too hot, exposing her bare legs to the night air. Yawning, she stretched out her body the length of the lounger, her shirt rose up around her hips, she wasn’t wearing underwear. She changed her tone back to chatty mates.

“Anyway, Josie, when’s your next job; do you have one every day?” she asked, turning onto her side, her shirt fell open, exposing her right breast; her skin shimmered in the moonlight. Josie noticed.

“Err… I’ve regulars yeah; I’ve one tomorrow afternoon and anuva tomorrow night. I check in with the agency each mornin’, I try to just go for the most lucrative jobs now, and work less. In the beginning I didn’t ’ave a choice, but now it’s a little easier, I pick and choose my clients.”

Josie pulled the tray of smoked salmon towards her, and popped a piece in her mouth. She felt uncomfortable, wishing Helen would cover up. She had a flashback of the hotel room and remembered how soft Helen’s mouth was, how good she tasted. She should get out of there, this was weird.

“Mmmmm… good salmon, ’el, thanks, didn’t realize ’ow ’ungry I was,” she fingered another sliver into her mouth, “mmmmm, want some?”

She leaned over the coffee table to pop a piece into Helen’s mouth, something that was natural for them to do as friends, they often fed each other. But Helen no longer

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wanted to be friends, she leaned forward, exposing more of her cleavage as she did so, she opened her mouth and let Josie feed her. Her warm lips lingered on Josie’s fingertips as she took the offering. Josie jumped, retreating her hand. Helen was obviously playing one of her games.

“Was that the first time you’ve made love to a woman?”

Josie’s question came out of the blue.

“Err…yes, I suppose it wasn’t for you, you probably have to do it all the time,” Helen stammered, suddenly feeling naïve, “how did I rate… good, bad, average?” she asked angrily.

“Don’t be silly, babes, it’s not a question of that,” soothed Josie.

“That’s what we do with men, isn’t it? We discuss the size of their cock, how good they are on a score of ten, whether they are a good kisser or not. Well, how did I do? Out of ten, Josie, go on.”

Helen was getting upset; the feeling of worthlessness building up again. Josie said nothing, trying to figure out why her friend was getting so aggressive.

“Well, go on, not good enough to have another go, eh?” her voice getting louder. The orchestra in the background hit a crescendo, adding to the atmosphere between them.

“Don’t shout, ‘el; this was your idea, not mine; remember, you should never mix business wiv pleasure and this is exactly why.”

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“What was I like, Josie, TELL ME!” shouted Helen, tears welling in her eyes, “TELL ME!” she shouted.

“Ok, ok, you were great, it was great... you wouldn’t shout at me if I were a bloke, would you? You wouldn’t shout ‘HOW WAS I?’ at ’im after you had bonked the ass off ’im, would ya… why do it to me? This is bollocks, I’m off,” she jumped up.

“If I was so great, why don’t you fancy me? Why don’t you want to do it again?” pushed Helen.

“What are you talkin’, ’el? You and me on a job?”

“No, you and me alone, lovers...”

“What?”

“You must have felt it Josie, we were great, we rocked, you came three times, no faking, I know it, you loved it… admit it.”

“I loved it… yeah…,” admitted Josie, she should never have let Helen get involved, it was a stupid mistake, she knew Helen was sexually unstable at the best of times, what possessed her to ever let her join in.

“Look, you know it can’t go anywhere, it was a one-off, I don’t wanna lose our friendship, it’s too risky... this is stupid, the champagne talkin, I’m off before I make a fool of me self, we’ll talk in the morning; good night ’el.”

She walked off the terrace, into the flat; a solo violin sang out from the CD player, so much for the calming influence. She grabbed a pair of jogging shoes abandoned

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by the front door, stuffed her clothes and bag in a ball under her arm, and ran out of the flat, slamming the door behind her, sod the neighbours.

Helen’s trainers were two sizes too small making her waddle like a duck; no way could she run down the stairs, so she took the lift. Slamming the gate shut, pissed off at herself for allowing Helen to do the job, and pissed off with Seb for making Helen so bloody emotionally paranoid.

As she stepped out onto the doorstep, the cool wind hitting her face, a voice screamed out of the block’s entry phone, she jumped with shock.

“Josie, get back up here NOW!” it was Helen.

“No, get stuffed,” she replied realising that she standing in a street wearing pink pyjamas, shoes that didn’t fit, shouting at a wall, for all and sundry to hear. Passers-by turned to stare at her; she looked like a bag lady, her clothes scrunched under her arm.

“Get back up here now, or I will scream the house down.”

“Go ahead, spoiled little rich girl, see if I care,” she stepped out onto the street, looking for an elusive taxi.

“Come up here now, get into my bed, I want to fuck you NOW,” echoed down the street.

Josie was mortified; she rushed back to the doorway, covering the speaker box with her hand in an effort to quiet the sound.

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“Shhhhhh, bloody ’ell, ’el!”

“I want to fuck you NOW,” repeated Helen, her voice getting louder.

An old couple in evening dress had just returned from an evening at the opera. The gent in black tie was fumbling with his key to open the main door; his shocked wife held on tightly to his arm and her diamante evening bag.

Being terribly British they tried to ignore the girls’ conversation.

“Shhhhhh… people can ’ear ya,” she hissed into the box.

“I don’t care. I want to fuck you now… NOW! I won’t shut up until you come back up… I want you, Josie, please... I love you, I wanna hold you, taste you... please come back.”

Helen’s voiced purred out of the speaker box, making the old lady tut with disgust, urging her husband to hurry up with the damn key, he promptly dropped it to the ground in his panic to speed up.

Josie felt a twinge of joy as her words pulled at her, she felt the same, or did she, urrrgh... she needed time to think about it, the champagne was clouding her judgment.

“Me too… err… I think… but can we talk in the morning after some sleep, it’s all a bit crazy fast, ’el,” praying that Josie would stop, where the hell was a taxi when you bloody need one, her eyes scanned the street.

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“If you don’t get into my bed right now, I will come down naked and fuck you there on the doorstep; I am counting to five.”

The old lady looked as though she would pass out; the gent finally got the key in the lock and opened up the door, helping her in. He turned back to Josie.

“You know, my dear, it’s none of my business, but I would prefer it if you’d be kind enough to do as the young lady says, only I do want to get some sleep tonight. My dear wife hasn’t been exposed to any form of fornication since 1949; I am not sure what kind of fit she’ll have listening to two banshees at it on the doorstep, if you would be so kind.”

“ONE…TWO…THREE…” Helen’s voice screeched through the entry phone.

With a questioning eyebrow, he held the door open for Josie to step inside. Sighing, she relented and forlornly waddled back to the lift, stocking tops trailing from her underarm bundle. The old boy shook his head, feeling sorry for the girl.

“Poor dear, women can be so demanding,” he leaned in close to the speaker box, “she’s coming, dear,” he hollered, and trundled off to calm his mortified wife.

Helen was waiting in the corridor. She jumped on Josie the minute the lift gate opened, not giving her a chance to speak.

“I so fucking fancy you… let’s just give it a try,” she beseeched, “if it doesn’t work out, we are big enough to 403

remain friends, please, I promise it won’t affect our friendship ever,” Josie stared at her, listening.

“You know, there are some bonus points, I’ll always leave the loo seat down, share the TV remote, give you better head than any man ever could, and cook a mean spag bol… what more do you want?”

“What the hell, if you put it like that… no stingeing on the bolognaise sauce though,” smiled Josie, kicking off the damn trainers.

“Race ya to the bedroom,” they charged back into the flat, falling over each other with excitement and giggles.

They had made an old gent on the ground floor very happy. His wife had only moaned about the ‘youth of today’ for twenty minutes before their night time single malt knocked her out.

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Chapter Fifty-Three

Fifteen years earlier Heddington Forest, Berkshire, England David had waited for this day; the promise of it had kept him sane for years. Today was the Headmaster’s penance.

After his mother had died and he left Heddington Hall, his father put him into a day school near their home to finish his exams. A nanny, Ms. Philbeach, had been employed to run the home and look after the children.

She moved into one of the spare rooms. David hated the fact that he was left in the charge of a nanny, the interfering woman spied on his every move, curtailing his freedom.

His father had not coped well with his wife’s death. He threw himself into work to suppress the pain, he avoided his children, they reminded him of her, both had her striking good looks, particularly David. Not 405

understanding their father’s behaviour, the children felt rejected.

Ms. Philbeach, a matronly, religious lady, cooked, cleaned, and kept house. For the most part it was just her and David, Helen had moved to London to start an exciting new job as a runner in an advertising agency, and Mr Howard spent more and more time at the office flat, seldom returning, there were too many memories.

Ms. Philbeach felt David’s disdain for her and gladly stayed out of his way. Initially she had tried to be understanding; his mother had just died and it must have been a terrible blow, but she soon learned that David was not a normal teenager; he was a rude, evil bully. She had seen the ‘experiments’ in his room, if that’s what he called them; she would have called them ‘persecutions’, disgusting ungodly acts against God’s little creatures.

She was considering calling in the RSPCA, but at her age it was difficult to find a job.

David frightened her; she took to locking her room at night and staying out of his way in the day. This suited David; he preferred to be alone, he was busy with Devil’s work.

He had made a few trips back to the village of Heddington, where his old school was situated. He had used the local phone box to make secret calls to the Head.

He had kept their sordid relationship alive with promises of great games to play.

Eventually, they had planned to meet in the local forest; it was to be later that day. David could not wait. His plans were safe, he knew the Head wouldn’t tell a soul where he was going; secrecy was part of the game. They

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hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year. It was to be a romantic reunion.

David felt a tingle of excitement as he waited at their secluded meeting place, deep in the woods. His black holdall held his beloved camera, tools, and clean clothing. He was dressed in his old school uniform; it just about fitted, giving him instant ‘boy’ appeal. As he knotted his old stained school tie, excitement began to build in him.

Through the trees, he could see the tweed-suited Head on his bike. He spotted David and gave an excited little wave, causing the bike to wobble, until with two hands safely on the handlebars, he managed to get it back under control.

David couldn’t believe that this pathetic old man had managed to torment him for so many years. Having been away for a year and now seeing him again with fresh eyes made him realize how insignificant the old boy really was. How could he have had so much power over David, not to mention the staff, who obviously knew what was happening; they never spoke out. Maybe they were all at it; all had their special little boys to play with.

He wondered how many other boys this man had buggered in his lifetime, how many other little worlds he had ruined with his sordid perversions. How had David let him rule for so long? Disgust brought bile to the back of his throat; he noisily snorted it to the front of his mouth and spat to the ground. The bullying days were over, the worm had turned.

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As the Head grew nearer, David could see he was smiling, how pathetically excited he looked. Did he really believe David still wanted to see him, still wanted to be abused by him? He had sounded so excited on the phone, had even mentioned the word ‘love’. He had taught David about ‘love’ all right, the power that came with letting someone believe they had your love. Love and vanity got the better of the Head that day; they had led him to a trap.

A leather whip was tucked under the Head’s arm, making steering difficult. He had come prepared. He had probably even brought the lubricant with him; bet it’s in the little wicker basket on the front of the bike. If only the parents of his pupils knew what he got up to behind closed doors with their beloved sons.

The forest’s terrain proved too difficult for the bike; the Head eased off it and walked the final distance, pushing it with laboured breaths. David went into little boy lost mode, head bent, knees together, hands behind his back, waiting for his master’s instructions. The game had started. Head brought his bike to a standstill in front of David; panting, he let it fall against a tree.

Eyeing up David, he got his breath back; the boy had grown. He was possibly a little too big now for his tastes, but a final thrashing would be fun; the boy had obviously missed him. He started the game by walking around David, slapping the whip into his palm while telling him off for some fictitious deed he was being punished for.

He then told him to strip ready for a beating. David dutifully complied, meticulously folding his clothing into a neat pile that sat on top of his shoes.

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Things did not go to plan for the Head that day. David did strip, but when naked, he overpowered the Head, pinning his hands and legs. Laying him out on the cold forest floor, he slowly tortured him. Telling him all the while what he thought of him, spitting curses into his agonised face.

First he burned him with cigarette ends; the sickly smell of burning flesh and chest hair hung in the air. Then he beat him with the whip until he bled. Then he fucked him, over and over, without lubrication, until he bled some more. The Head’s screams went unheard, lost and muffled in the blanket of trees.

For the final act, he pulled a tray of dissection implements out of his bag. The Head turned his tear streaked face and saw the blades. David saw his hooded, bloodshot eyes and knew death had arrived. In that moment the Head gave up, he knew he was over, his cries softened to childlike whimpers, the heart attack had begun. He started to pray, probably for the first time in his cruel, bullying life.

“God won’t help you now; he gave up on you a long time ago. The Devil has come to do his dirty work, payback time, old man! What do you think the penance should be for years of ruining young souls, years of abuse? One Hail Mary and an Our Father? Two Hail Marys, ten, a hundred, a thousand? What would clean the sheet so that you can get a pink pass and go to heaven? Well, you don’t get off that easily,” hissed David into his bloodsoaked ear.

He heaved the whimpering body and rolled it over onto its fat gut. With painstaking precision, he cut through the 409

remaining clothing and pulled it back, exposing whip cut flesh.

“Next I am going to take out your heart, you never really used it properly, cut out your tongue to stop the lies and cut off your dick to stop the you forcing it on any more little boys, but first I’m gonna give you a taste of how you felt to us, for all those years; this is what you put us through bending over that desk of yours… enjoy, old man.”

The double-edged knife pushed silently up inside his anus, and slowly twisted a full circle. The Head’s final scream tore from his body with such a force that it swept the menacing audience of black crows up into the grey sky, calling out a warning to each other as they fled.

David laughed and laughed. He was going to have fun with his penance list.

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Chapter Fifty-Four He fussed around his angel. He had stripped her and gently laid her out on one side of the bed, leaving enough room for him to snuggle up beside her. Her hands and feet were tied to the bedposts with enough slack in the rope for each of her limbs to be moved around with ease, but not enough to allow her to escape. He had given her ample medication to knock her out for the night, and he would top her up with injections periodically to keep her sedated.

He had lain naked beside her all night, a white sheet covered them. He made a promise to himself that the first night he would not touch her; he would savour the moment, the bittersweet torture of waiting.

It was almost unbearable to be so close yet not reach out to touch her. He would lift the sheet and stare at her flesh, longing to run his fingers along the length of her body, remembering how it felt, tasted, how she reacted to his touch the nights he visited her. He had waited a long time to have her to himself, he no longer had to look at her through a lens, or sneak around in the darkness. He 411

almost felt sorry that she would have to die, but she was on the list, she had to pay. They all had to pay.

He lay so close he could feel the pounding of her heart vibrating through the mattress. Her smell aroused him, becoming more potent as the night went on. Careful not to touch her, he would lean over her body and place his mouth over hers, taking in her exhaled breath, stealing the air that had been inside her. She would then inhale his as he blew gently over her mouth and nose, creating a cycle, until giddy from lack of oxygen.

She had tossed and turned through nightmares, he had soothed her, whispering gently that everything would be all right. She had appeared to hear him, trust him, and fell back into her deep sleep. Eventually, he slept also, with a smile, in anticipation of the days to come.

It was now morning; finally he would allow himself to indulge his fantasy. First he had a long hot shower, preparing his body for pleasure. He then set up his camera, placing it on the bedside table in easy reach.

Dressed in a white towelling robe, he sat beside her on the bed.

It was 9 a.m., time to start his day. Start his work. He would finish at 5 p.m. and take an hour for lunch. He would do this for three days, then dispose of her. She was his work, his masterpiece. He was almost scared to start, as that would mean a finish. What would he fill his time with after she had gone? Seb, then what?

He guessed the police would eventually suss him out, even though he had been careful to cover his tracks. The spy flat rent had been paid for in cash with a fake ID; he had always worn gloves and made sure he hadn’t been

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seen entering or leaving her building. He planned to leave the UK for a while. He had set in motion the process for funds, ID, and a new face in Mexico; life was cheap and prostitution cheaper; rent boys in abundance. He could suffer it there for a few years until his killing spree interest had died down.

Looking down on her, she looked so peaceful. The face of his angel, the face that had helped him through the Head’s little sessions, had fed the abuse and become an extension of it. The Head had been dealt with; it was now her turn. She had abandoned him, rejected him; he would return the favour, let her experience rejection, pain, worthlessness, let her beg; he would mentally disassemble her, then end it.

Before his scalpel would take her last breath, he would gain her trust and make her shudder with pleasure until she begged for him, like he had her. He had the power now.

Taking his time, he slowly pulled back the sheet, exposing her torso. He watched as the cold air covered her in goose bumps. Her nipples hardened, he brought his mouth down to suckle them. He could be as hard or as gentle as he liked; with the strength of dosage he had given her she did nothing, just lay like a rag doll.

He turned on the two spot lights; they lit up her body, no more spying in the dark. He pulled back the sheet, letting it slide to the floor. Her arms were flopped at her sides; ropes tied at her wrists led to the bedposts above her head; ropes from her ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed; she looked like the discarded puppet of a child that didn’t want to play anymore.

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He slowly licked, stroked, and tweaked her from head to toe, tasting every morsel of her, searching every crevice; he could do with her as he wished; he took his time. He got up and walked around the bed, surveying her vulnerability from all angles. Parts of her skin were glistening with his saliva. He picked up the camera and took a few shots. He spread her legs wide and took some more.

Click, Click.

He sat on the side of the bed, with his camera on his lap, and gently stroked her pubic hair, then down between her legs, enjoying the difference between the soft baby skin and the coarse pubic hair. He knew exactly how to get her going, he had nights of practice. He heard a quiet moan deep in the back of her throat, how easy she was, he played and played until she was soaking wet.

Licking his fingers, he picked up his camera again, taking more close-ups, rearranging her legs for a better view. He would shave her later, and take the same angle, before and after shots would be fun for his collection.

Click, Click.

His cock nudged its way out of his robe, insisting on being noticed. He held it from time to time as he worked, massaging it backwards and forwards. He pulled a condom from his pocket, tore off the foil, and rolled it down the length of his cock. He didn’t want to catch anything; he knew where she had been, naughty girl.

Click, Click.

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He worked his way around the bed, taking shots of his gorged cock resting against various parts of her body, her mouth, cheek, hand, chest, between her legs, her inner thigh and feet.

Click, Click.

Enough waiting, it was time; he shrugged off the robe, chucked the camera on the bed, and knelt between her legs. Leaning forward he thrust deep up inside her, her body shunted up the bed, she was silent. He would come quickly because he knew that he could do it again and again and again...

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Chapter Fifty-Five He couldn’t come.

He pummelled away at the comatosed Tara until midday, with no joy. He couldn’t come, why? He had waited years for this moment and he couldn’t fucking come... shit! He gave up, dosed her up some more, and left the flat to post another gift to the newspapers and meet up with Seb for a coffee.

It was good to get out; he had needed the air, needed to think. Why couldn’t he come? Fuck it… he had finally got his angel to himself and he couldn’t bloody deliver!

He never had a problem coming.

Maybe she had been drugged too much, he had certainly given her more than during his nightly visits. He needed her to be a part of the proceedings, to hear her groans and feel her body’s reaction to his touch; it turned him on to see the pleasure he aroused, empowered him. Fucking an inert dead object gave him nothing, any old fool could do

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that, and he wasn’t some ugly loser that couldn’t get a date; he did not need to rape.

He would reduce the dosage, sober her up a bit. She may initially be a bit difficult and reject him, but that would be the fun, his success would be in turning her around, making her want him, beg for more. He would control her, feed his power.

He would try again later, meanwhile Seb. He turned the corner and skipped up the steps to the coffee shop; Seb was patiently waiting with two steaming hot coffees and two seats in the window, flicking through a newspaper.

Seb got straight down to questioning him about the text he had sent to Tara the night before. David pleaded ignorance, but wasn’t sure Seb believed him.

“Why the hell did it have your address, David?” Seb questioned.

“I have no idea, dahling boy… maybe it was a joke from one of your so-called friends. Maybe a warning that they know about your little secret.”

“Oh, yeah… like who?” Seb was pissed off that David belittled him and his fear of coming out of the closet.

“A little tetchy this morning, aren’t we?… well, Franco for a start…weren’t you with him last night? He could have done it.”

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David knew that Seb had a crush on Franco, and was happy to shift the blame onto him. He kicked himself; fuck! How could he have been so stupid not to have deleted the text after he’d sent it? He was getting laxed; losing his attention to detail, he had better be careful.

“Don’t be stupid, Franco would never do anything like that; he’s a mate. Besides, how would he know your address? Although I was with him when I found it,” David had managed to put a seed of doubt into Seb’s mind.

“Anyway, I’m meeting up with Tara this afternoon, I will find out then what happened… she didn’t turn up at your place last night, did she? I sent a message to her phone, but I can’t tell if she got it; she’s going to be in a right mood.”

“Why?” asked David innocently, carefully sipping his hot coffee.

Seb pointed at his paper.

“Have you seen the papers this mornin? Her place will be crawling with press, again. She should get out of town for a while.”

David hadn’t seen the papers so Seb filled him in. Maria had gone to the press; she had finally cracked and splashed her side of the story across the tabloids.

“Tara will go bananas,” sighed Seb. Oh no, she won’t, she will never find out, thought David.

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“Anyway, David, got time for a quickie, shall we go back to your place?” Seb grinned naughtily at David, the text and Maria forgotten.

“Sorry, baby, I’m busy today, maybe tomorrow… I’ll call you.”

“Oh, go on… just a quickie,” whined Seb, David had never turned him down before, he didn’t like it.

“No, it’s good for you to miss me, makes you want me more, big boy; besides, you’re off to see Tara,” David grinned salaciously as he stroked Seb’s thigh, it was good to taunt him and make him wait.

Seb was not happy, but at least he had forgotten the text message. David knocked back his coffee and gave Seb a lingering full-on kiss, said his apologies, and left.

Leaving Seb turning pink at the public display of affection.

David returned to the flat; on the way he posted his gift to the press and bought a bottle of milk, a newspaper, and a baby’s bottle. He would use it to get liquids into Tara; he didn’t want her dehydrating on him just yet.

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Chapter Fifty-Six Bloody hell, fuck David; he had been feeling so horny as well. He could really have done with a quick session.

Instead he had been left to pay the bill and finish his coffee alone; he felt horny, dejected and frustrated. What a waste of a good stiffy.

He had a good mind to jump in a cab and try out a few of the bars in Soho, pick up someone new. Now he knew how bloody wonderful it was, there was no stopping him.

Why the hell hadn’t he done it long ago? What a waste of years of pleasure. What a dick!

Soho would have to wait; he had to get back to work and track down Tara; they needed to meet and talk about the new spin. He had read her email to Pete Wells; it was a good idea and could work... God bless her, what a clever girl.

He dialled Tara’s home number on his phone; holding it to his ear, he waited for it to connect up. Staring thoughtfully out of the window, he noticed what looked like Franco’s Mercedes parked up in front of the coffee bar. That’s funny, what would Franco be doing around

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here? He would normally be at training at this hour.

Tara’s answer phone voice clicked in.

“You know what to do after the beep…”

Beeeeepppp.

“Tara babes, it’s me again; left a message earlier… look… give me a call. Love the new spin idea; come over to the studio today; we should go through it before you meet your lot… err… sorry about Maria, she’s a dickhead. Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper and all that baloney… call me… will try your cell phone.”

He disconnected, scrolled to her mobile number and called that; it was ringing…good. Looking up while waiting for her to answer, he saw Michael, Franco’s driver, walking toward the coffee shop. He was coming from the direction of David’s flat, he was alone. Without thinking, Seb jumped up and banged on the window, waving frantically for him to come in… why the hell did he do that? He didn’t have time for a chat, and he hardly knew the guy. Oh well, he would probably refuse, but Michael didn’t. On seeing Seb, he nodded and walked briskly into the shop to shake his outstretched hand, while Seb left another message on Tara’s voicemail.

“Darlin’, it’s me again, trying to track you down; where are you? Have left messages on your home phone, we need to meet… today… call me, I’m on the cell phone,” he snapped his phone shut and turned his attention to Michael.

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“Michael, how goes it; what you doin’ around here?

Where’s Franco?”

He patted Michael on the back, noticing how stacked his shoulder muscles were... must be all that combat training.

“Do you want a coffee or something? Sit down,” he pulled out the stool David had just vacated.

Michael cautiously took it. It was not like him to fraternize with the likes of his boss’s mates but he was about to rely on his instincts with this one and take a risk.

He hoped he could trust him not to go off the deep end, but Franco trusted him as a good sort, and he needed help.

Seb got up to get them both a coffee. Standing at the till waiting for his change, he looked back at Michael. He had taken his jacket off, hung it over the back of stool, perched one leg over the seat of the stool, and was leaning on the table, scrolling through his phone... hmmm, very hunky, nice ass! He giggled to himself, now he had started he couldn’t stop, he was looking at everyone in a new light, it was fan-bloody-tastic; he just prayed no one could read his mind.

Gently balancing the two mugs, he brought them over to their window stools and sat down beside Michael.

“Here we go, so what are you doing around here, killing time before you pick up Franco?”

Michael looked troubled.

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“Well, err, Mr. Maloney, I ’ave something to…”

“Seb, please, call me Seb, no airs and graces here, mate,” Seb interrupted, punching his very strong arm.

“Seb,” Michael started again, “I ’ave sumfing to tell you that may sound a bit off the wall. I want your word you will listen to me till I’m through and not tell Mr. Rossellini anything unless I agree to it.”

He looked so serious, Seb wanted to laugh, but kept his cool. How exciting, Michael’s voice sounded grave, as if he were reporting a secret spy mission.

“Err… yeah… of course mate, fire away,” intrigued.

“It’s my job to protect Mr. Rossellini; I’ve taken it under my wing to investigate a few misdemeanours that seem to be occurring within his domain, so to speak.”

“Bloody hell, mate… very secret squirrel’ish… what misdemeanours exactly?” chuckled Seb. Michael took a slurp of his coffee, still not sure if he should divulge his information, he hadn’t got it completely sorted out in his own head yet, but discussing it with someone would help. Taking a deep breath, he continued.

He told Seb that he had been following Tara since she started seeing Franco, initially to see if she had had anything to do with the vandalizing of Franco’s car, as someone had scratched “BITCH” on the hood, so he had watched her to eliminate her from his list of suspects. But 423

then she had had the same done to her. He had also been keeping an eye on his boss’s girlfriend, Maria, lover boy Ed, and Tara’s friends.

“It seems that Tara meets up with her girlfriends regularly for lunch, which is fine, but a guy, we will call him Mr. X, follows them and takes pictures of them as they meet. Mr. X also had a flat above Tara’s, it seems he had it wired up to take private pictures of her, cameras were linked to her flat, I guess he also had a tap on her phone ’cause he knows of her movements. I happened to be outside Tara’s flat before she came home from work the night the Ed pictures were taken, I saw Mr. X arrive and go up to his flat, then Tara, then Ed. None had left by early next morning, when I had to leave to take the boss to training. Photographs of Ed and Tara then arrived at Mr. Rossellini’s house. I got Maria to bring them over to Italy, the rest is history.”

Another slurp of coffee, Seb was leaning in closer to hear him, this was fascinating. Who was the mysterious Mr. X? He wanted to giggle but controlled the urge.

“Yeah, I saw those pictures, the bastard, he needs to be sorted,” Seb, now wanting to get involved, shuffled his stool nearer to Michael, two secret agents together.

Michael nodded his agreement.

“I followed Tara last night, I ’ad the night off. She went around to Mr. X’s flat and had not come out at 7 a.m. this morning, when I had to go and collect the boss. That’s why I’m parked up here now, wanted to see if anything was ’appening. Mr. X is dodgy, she should be nowhere near him, in my opinion. Bumping into you may be fortuitous, I need your help.”

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“Sure, how can I help?” Seb asked, thinking of Tara’s text the night before, a deep dread building in his stomach.

“Well, Mr. X is your boyfriend, Mr. Maloney. I did wonder if you were in on it at first, wiv bein’ a photographer an’ all. But if my hunch is right, you’re not.

Am I right, Mr. Maloney?”

“Seb, for Christ sake, man, call me Seb. What do you mean ‘in on it’? Me? Jesus, what boyfriend, I’m not ga…”

He stopped; why was he still denying it? Whose bloody business was it anyway? So what if he was gay. Michael stared him out, daring him to deny it; this was no time for games.

“Sorry,” he raised his hands in apology, “OK. I’m gay, but only just… only once… I mean… I’m new… I’m not used to admitting it yet. People have a tendency to be small-minded about this sort of thing, you know,” sensing Michael’s impatience he got back to the point.

“My boyfriend… you mean David, David Howard?”

“Yes sir. Look, sorry, didn’t mean to spy on you but I was watching him. I need to break into ’is place, I’m afraid she’s still in there against her will.”

“Now?.. wow, wait a minute, why don’t you just call the police? I’m not going to be involved in any break-in, no action man stuff for me mate,” Seb laughed nervously, putting his hands up, “no way,” this was rapidly turning 425

from a fun secret spy mission into an arrest on ‘Crimewatch Television.’

“If I call the police, they’ll bungle it, and the press will get involved. The boss is under a lot of pressure at the moment; if we can handle it quietly ourselves, all the better for everyone involved, including you. You don’t want pictures of your lover all over the papers, do you?”

“Jeysus, no! I may be coming out, but I don’t want the world to know just yet thanks,” Seb cringed. Michael was right, maybe they could sort it out amicably. It could all be a mountain out of a mole hill.

“How can you be so sure she’s still in there? She may have left this morning while you were away. Did you try her flat? I’ve just called her; there’s no answer. She could be anywhere. Could have done a bunk for a few days, getting away from it all. Do you think he’s dangerous?

Oh my God,” granted David was a little weird sometimes, but would he do something like this?

“Well, you shag ’im; do you think him dangerous, Mr. Mal… Seb?” Seb flinched, Michael’s voice turned hard. It would be bloody typical that his first lover would turn out to be a psycho. He thought on Michael’s words, David was different, but why would he be interested in Tara, a woman? Seb’s heart began to beat faster, it dawned on him.

“You’re right about the pictures; he took them… feck, feck feck, I bloody know it. He has a room in his flat with pictures of Tara all over the wall, well, I think it was Tara, but it was the same grainy black-and-white style of

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the Ed shots,” Michael gave him a glare, why hadn’t he mentioned this before?

“Sorry mate, I’ve only just remembered,” Seb hunched his shoulders.

“She hasn’t returned to her flat, I checked, no answer.

She must still be in there, with your fuck-buddy.”

Hearing Michael speak so crudely reminded Seb that you didn’t mess with an ex-SAS guy. He was finding Franco’s chauffeur more and more attractive.

“He’s a bit violent, yes, but I don’t think he would hurt anyone,” defended Seb. “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been doing a bit of homework on our Mr. Howard, through a few old connections at the Met. It seems he was the local tart at his boarding school, had a big thing goin’ with the Headmaster, your old school I believe. A year after David had left, the Headmaster was found murdered in a forest, a science professor and priest were found a few months later, copycat killings. Not enough evidence to pin the murders on anyone, but the investigating police officers suspected David. You don’t want to know how they died, not a pretty sight; I’ve seen the crime scene photos. Also, a home help went missing that same year, Ms. Philbeach, the old dear had been working for David’s father when she disappeared; her family reported her missing. Again no evidence, not even a body this time, but the local police suspected lover boy.”

Seb remembered the Heddington Forest murders well. In his last year at school, the boys had been protected from 427

the full details, but there were gruesome rumours; he couldn’t believe it could have been David.

“Your lover boy also goes wiv women, I’m afraid to disappoint you.”

Michael was getting cheeky now, enjoying telling Seb about his lover’s failings.

“He uses prostitutes, into the sado-masochistic scene. Not a nice man, has a few issues, bit of a complicated character, you might say,” Michael knocked back the dregs of his coffee.

“Anything else you have to tell me?” Seb had had enough of this talk, he felt a little sick.

“Yeah, Helen Howard, his sister, Tara’s lunching mate, has been vandalizing cars, she seems to have issues with Tara... and, oh yeah... Josie, her other lunching mate, she’s a hooker, calls herself Josephine,” Seb was gobsmacked.

“Life is never dull with you posh totties, is it mate,” Michael grinned at the ashen-faced Seb; his jaw on the ground.

“Fuck me!” exclaimed a shocked Seb. “OK… your place or mine?” winked Michael; Seb wasn’t the only one with secrets.

“What?” Seb’s head was spinning, he did a double-take.

Michael laughed, saying nothing, letting it sink in.

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“You little shit, and there you were giving me a hard time about David!”

“Nah, only about your bad choice, Mr. Maloney, you have no taste! David may be a pretty boy, but he is a total fuck up,” chuckled Michael.

They looked at each other in a new light, the atmosphere lightened. Seb decided that he rather liked Michael, maybe they should get to know each other better... he wondered what he was like in the sack... but, hey, first they had to put their heads together to devise a plan to save Tara. Sporjakk took a back seat. He ordered more coffee.

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Chapter Fifty-Seven He had contemplated popping into her flat and packing a suitcase of bare essentials to make it look as if she had gone away for a few days, but with the paparazzi camped outside, it may be too dangerous. He had been lucky so far; returning to the building may be pushing it.

He kept her phone charged and on, so that he could monitor who was trying to get hold of her and the messages they were leaving. She had come to him the night before manned only with her flat keys and phone, pathetic really. He already had a set of keys, they were no use, but the phone was. The ringtone was annoying, so he set it to vibrate and checked on it periodically.

He listened to her voicemail. A few journalists had sourced her number and were giving her an opportunity to tell her side of the story, offering her large sums of cash to spill the beans. A Mrs. B, Ned Bromley, and Pete Wells were trying to get hold of her to attend a Sporjakk damage limitation meeting. He loved it that he had them all running around like headless chickens. They would

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just have to do without her; she was his now. Seb had called persistently, he was not sure he believed him about not sending the Tara text; he would have to keep an eye on the boy.

Since his ejaculation problems that morning, he had been pulling her out of her drugged state. He fed her water through the baby bottle, gently holding her head in his lap and stroking her hair while she drank, tentatively at first, then hungrily. She slowly started to come around.

He spoke softly, as if to a baby, coaxing her around, his voice hypnotizing, gaining her trust.

She felt as if she were waking up to the mother of all hangovers. Her body heavy and cumbersome, she could barely move her limbs. Water trickled down the back of her parched throat as she winced through the pain of dry swallowing.

She began to remember events leading up to her passing out. She knew where she was and with whom. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes; she wasn’t ready to see what had happened to her just yet. Hiding behind her lids she squeezed them tight shut. If she could keep them closed, she could keep him out. His voice soothed in her ear, his hands ran over her head, stroking damp hair away from her face. His fingers had a powerful magnetic effect on her skin, she recognized the touch, she had dreamt about it.

The mugginess in her head started to clear. She could feel she was naked, on a mattress and covered with a sheet.

What had happened to her clothes? How had she got there? Her brain struggled with angst questions, was she going to die? A wave of panic rushed over her, tears 431

pricked her eyes, she couldn’t loose it. She had to stay calm, get out of there, away from him, but how?

The weight in her limbs began to lift; she could feel the sensation of bindings around her ankles and wrists, she a prisoner. Her head felt as if it were resting in his lap. He was administering water, with what? It felt like a plastic teat, was it a baby’s bottle? Her head ached with dehydration, she sucked hungrily grateful for the cool water waking her senses. The smell of his musky, heady cologne began to hit her. She breathed in, enjoying its relaxing sensual effect.

The distant hum of traffic meant that she may still be in his flat. He was whispering in her ear, his voice low, she couldn’t make out what he was saying but the tone was rhythmic and reassuring. Behind his voice she could hear classical music; its peaceful cadence slowed her heart.

The panic subsided, she began to feel safe.

Another sense kicked in, an ache in her abdomen, her bladder was full to bursting, she stopped drinking.

Turning her head away from the bottle, the teat dragged out of her lips, she spoke in a barely audible voice.

“No more… no, please.”

He smiled, she was coming around. She looked like a child lying in his lap. He gently wiped away the trickles of water from the sides of her mouth, with a corner of the sheet.

“Are you hungry, my love, what can I get you?” he soothed.

“Why are you doing this? What do you want? Who are

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you? Please let me go,” her voice rasped as she tried to lift herself up.

“No, no, no young lady, relax, I’m going to look after you for a while; you collapsed but you are safe, trust me... now, are you hungry?”

“No… I need the bathroom, I need to go now... please,” she lurched forward but couldn’t move.

Her bladder was painfully full; she didn’t feel she could control it. Her body began to shake; a splitting headache seared the back of her head, her skin began to crawl as if covered with tiny creatures. What was happening? She was going to piss herself, another wave of panic hit; she started to pant, trying to gain control. She mustn’t lose it, she had to stay calm... eyes tight shut, don’t let him in, tears rolled down her face.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry chica, let’s get you to the bathroom, everything’s fine, you can have a nice hot bath,” the drugs were wearing off, she was coming down, he needed to keep her calm.

Sliding her head gently off his lap onto the bed, he went to the bathroom and turned on the taps of the Jacuzzi bath. He poured in a mixture of bath salts he had shipped in from Paris; they cost a fortune but were wonderful. He hummed cheerfully to the music as he worked. Letting the water run, he returned to his angel and undid her bindings, lifted her out of the bed, and took her to the bathroom. He sat her gently on the toilet seat, kneeling in front of her, letting her head rest on his chest as he waited for her to relieve herself. He had watched her ‘pee’ a hundred times from the spy flat, it was nothing new.

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“I can’t with you here… I can’t, please go,” she may have been out of it but she still had dignity, “I need clothes, please,” her hands tried to cover her bare chest.

“No, it’s ok, I’m not looking, come on, Tara, then you can have your bath, it’s lovely, look at it.”

She refused to open her eyes, but smelled the bath salts and heard the noise of the water cascading out of the taps.

“No, I can’t, please leave me to do this alone,” she whimpered.

He didn’t have time for modesty; he hauled her up and carried her out of the bathroom, down the corridor to the shower room. Sliding back the glass door, he pushed her into the shower. She fell into the corner, huddled up against the cold tiled wall. He turned on the tap and freezing water poured ruthlessly down on top of her. She let out a scream with the shock and stood, head bowed, crying, holding her shivering body until the water gradually heated to bearable.

Lifting her face up into the powerful stream, she cried out loud, the noise of the shower drowned out her sobs, tears mingled with water, lost on her cheeks. The pain in her bladder was finally too much to bear; she gave way to the embarrassing release. The hot golden liquid trickled down her legs, filled the shower tray with yellow swirls, circled her feet and snaked down the plug hole. She wailed into the water, angry and humiliated that he should see her piss herself.

He put a towel around her and walked her back to the bathroom, guided her trancelike up the steps of the Jacuzzi and down into its warm soapy water. She sat on

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the ledge seat that circled the inside of the tub, her arms still locked around her body, rocking, nursing, trying to stay calm. David stripped off and stepped into the water beside her. He reached over and turned off the taps. The abrupt silence ceased her tears. She was aware that he was close to her, sitting beside her. He must also be naked; a new fear hit her… rape.

“You are safe, angel, don’t worry, open your eyes, it’s ok,” he whispered, “look how lovely it is in here… look… I will not hurt you… look… you are safe I promise,” his soothing gentle voice coaxed her.

She let her eyes open, prising them slowly against the light; they took a while to focus. She was sitting in a large deep Jacuzzi, warm water up to her chest, candles lit around the room. In any other situation, she would have loved it, but David was sitting beside her, watching her every move... shit, he’s naked, she jumped to the other side of the Jacuzzi, covering her breasts with her hands.

“What do you want, why have you done this?” she demanded.

“Well, you passed out my darling; I was just looking after you until you came around. Once you are better, I will let you go. Don’t worry, I will not harm you, you are my angel, remember,” he spoke softly, as if he meant it.

“What do you mean, I passed out, you put something in my drink, it made me giddy. Why did you do that? I feel like shit, I can’t stop shaking.”

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“You are my angel,” he repeated, “do you not remember who I am, Tara? I wrote to you years ago, confessing my undying love to you. I am David Howard, Helen’s brother… have you forgotten?”

She stared at him across the water, trying to avoid their legs touching. Her thoughts galloped through her groggy brain, trying to take in what he had said. Helen’s brother... oh shit! the weirdo, yes, she did remember him.

She giggled nervously, this was ridiculous. Where was Helen? Did she know about this?

“I used to look after you, if I remember,” memories coming back to her.

“Yes, you did,” pleased that she hadn’t forgotten. “I used to stick up for you, when everyone would pick on you…

I felt sorry for you… why would you do this?”

“Because, fair lady, you threw my love back in my face, I needed you and you threw me aside.”

He moved crablike around the ledge to get closer to her, she backed away, keeping the distance between them.

“You’re still running away from me, I’m not a leper, you know; why do you despise me so much?”

He looked offended at her efforts to get out of his reach.

“I was only young and you were even younger, how the hell did we know anything about love? I didn’t know your feelings for me, I remember that letter, and felt so sorry that you had taken my kindness the wrong way. I

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was only protecting a little kid that was being bullied, I wish I hadn’t bloody bothered now,” she huffed.

His face darkened, making her regret her words.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wrote back trying to explain, I even remember telling you that one day you would have loads of girlfriends and look at you now, you are really handsome, I’m sure you’ve got loads of…” Remembering something from the previous night about him and Seb being lovers, she chose her words carefully. “…admirers.”

“But I wanted you, Tara, I fell in love with you… do you really think me handsome?” he beamed cheerfully.

He changed tack and tone mid-conversation so easily, it unnerved her. Her mind was still fuzzy; she shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. At least the warm bath had mellowed her body; she stopped shaking and could move with ease. The water was so inviting she wanted to relax into it.

Was he really Helen’s brother, after all this time? As a child he was weird, she always felt that he was watching her, but ignored it as a schoolboy crush. Helen was not going to believe this.

A memory of the pictures on his den wall came back to her; she realized he was the sicko that had taken the pictures of her, Ed, and Franco.

“You had the flat above mine, didn’t you… you took all those disgusting pictures… you are sick!”

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“No, just paying you back for the hurt you caused me, baby… I’ve been watching you for a long time Tara. I know everything about you. You didn’t answer me, do you think I’m handsome?” he grinned cheekily.

“Yeah,” his change of tack threw her again, “I suppose you are…”

Looking at him properly, she realized he was. He had, amazingly, grown into a strong, confident, hunk of a man. She marvelled at the memory of him as a boy, the transformation from spotty school kid to sex on legs was amazing. Helen had kept that quiet, or maybe sisters just don’t notice how good looking their brothers are.

“Can I go now you have played your game? How long have I been here?”

“No, not yet; I want to make it up to you, I want to look after you until you are fully recovered and then I will let you go… for now you are my guest, ok? Relax; you may as well enjoy my hospitality.”

“Look, I’m feeling fine now, please let me go, I’ve got work to do. I’m truly sorry to have hurt you all those years ago. You have paid me back tenfold; I have never been so frightened, please…”

“Yeah, I have frightened you, haven’t I? Now, I’m going to make you very happy, Tara, then you can go.”

His voice took on a serpent-like quality she didn’t like.

Shit, what kind of sick game was this? If he was gay, surely rape couldn’t be on the agenda; what then, what did he want?

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He sunk low in the water and let it wash over him, closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tub. He looked beautiful, serene, like a model in some glamorous perfume ad. She could definitely have fancied him, if he were straight. Taking his lead she relaxed back also, playing along with his game. She didn’t have a lot of choice.

They sat quietly for a few moments, classical music playing in the background. The warm water softened her mood, he certainly knew how to set the scene, music, candles, scented water, and the tub was huge; you could throw a party in it. She wondered if he were a good lover, then immediately put the thought out of her mind. For heaven’s sake, she was held captive by a lunatic and wondering what it would be like to fuck him. She was sick, not him.

Finally, he spoke: “You like baths, don’t you, Tara?”

“Yeah, I love them,” she answered, without thinking.

“I know, I used to watch you,” that serpent-like voice again.

She snapped out of her relaxed state and sat upright to watch him. Without opening his eyes, he let his hands run down his body, caressing his chest, then down to his thighs.

“You would stroke yourself, Tara, like this,” his hands trailed down his glistening chest, beneath the water to his lap, “you would think no one was looking, but I was; I was doing it with you.”

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His voice was low and husky, he slowly rubbed himself beneath the water, head back, eyes closed, enjoying her watching him for a change.

“What did you think about, Tara, when you were doing it? What did you feel?”

She knew what he was doing, although she had to admit he did look gorgeous, if it had been anyone else she would probably have taken over for him. But this was sick, an invasion of her privacy, he had bloody got off on watching her, the bastard. She sat quietly, saying nothing, letting him play. His hand was working faster now, his breath shorter. The bastard was going to come... how the fuck dare he!

A showerhead lay on the side of the bath. While his eyes were shut, she quietly reached for the nozzle, turned on the cold tap full blast, stood over him, and showered freezing water over his face and chest. He jumped up so fast he hit his head on the nozzle. He was frozen, not able to breathe with the shock.

She laid into him.

“You bastard, how dare you, you little shit. You film me in the privacy of my own home, kidnap me, and sit here, wanking in front of me. Well, fuck you, I’m off, I’m going straight to the police, Helen’s brother or not. Gay, my ass… what planet are you on?”

She stood to get out of the bath; dropping the showerhead, it writhed around under the water like a demented snake, smashing against their legs. He fell back laughing, she was spunky, he loved it.

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“You know, Tara, you are absolutely right, enough games… are you hungry? I’m famished, come on let’s eat; I’m going to prepare you some pasta to die for,” the serpent had been replaced by the cheerful best-of-friends tone.

He turned off the shower, pulled the plug on the bath, and jumped out in search of towels, still laughing at her. Tara sat on the ledge, bemused, the water getting lower and lower, leaving her cold and vulnerable. She couldn’t believe it, what was so bloody funny? He was mad… now they were going to eat?

He threw a folded towelling robe at her; she caught it just out of the water. Her energy and senses were back on form, that was a good sign.

“Are you going to come and help me, or do I tie you up while I prepare it? And by the way, you won’t go to the police, because I have evidence that would ruin your friend Seb’s career, just like I have made a laughingstock of you and your Italian stallion... capice?,” the serpent whipped back for a final word.

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Chapter Fifty-Eight Franco was fed up with Maria. Initially, he had let her hang around rather than be alone, but she was driving him nuts. Her bits and pieces were everywhere; she had slowly moved in and taken over the apartment. She was even talking about getting a puppy. It had been his fault; they had never actually discussed her moving in, but by him not having the courage to question her on it, he had encouraged her. The longer she stayed, the harder it was to disentangle her.

More frighteningly, he was not sure she was taking her contraceptive pill; he had seen unused packs in the bathroom cabinet. Puppies were the lead-up to a baby. He had gotten into the habit of withdrawing during sex.

She had caused war with his interior designer, Miss Arty Farty, Felicity Ramsey-Jones. The two women hated each other on sight, and fought over the control of his domain. Felicity had installed luxurious cream silk curtains in the living room; shipped in from Venice they were obscenely expensive but beautiful. Delicate gold

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threaded tassels adorned the length of each edge. Maria thought they were crap and pruned the tassels with her nail scissors.

When a stunning antique chandelier arrived from a Knightsbridge auction house, to be the centrepiece of the living room, Maria had the delivery boys install it in the guest loo. It was ridiculously large for the small room; only a small child could now take a pee in there without smashing his head, but Maria was adamant; it was crap, so should hang where one took one. Felicity went bananas and promptly resigned, leaving Franco with a half-finished apartment and a massive bill for services.

That morning, on his way to the stadium for a match, Michael silently passed him a newspaper; from the look on Michael’s face he expected more lurid photographs of Tara and him. He hadn’t seen this one coming; Maria had sold her story to the press.

“What the hell... !”

He had only just left her asleep in bed, she didn’t get up until midday, she hadn’t mentioned anything? Scanning the article, he sighed with relief; an opportunity for her exodus. He now had to summon up the energy for a showdown.

The match had been disastrous; they lost 2-3 to a team at the bottom of the table, a win should have been a walk in the park. He had been the whipping boy for the opposing fans; they didn’t lay off the chants, going to town on the latest Maria developments. The opposing players had fun winding him up with subtle comments out of earshot from the ref. He finally let one of the cruder slurs get to 443

him; head butted the culprit, and got red carded. Down to ten men, his team conceded three goals, and lost the game. Woody was mightily pissed off and ignored him after the game.

He crashed into the apartment, chucking his kit bag at the door.

“Maria, where the hell are you?”

Maria sauntered out of the bedroom dressed in cream cashmere, cool as a cucumber, a grin on her face.

“We are over; it’s not working. I don’t love you; we are going to finish this once and for all,” it felt good to blurt it out.

Maria looked up at him, doe-eyed, not taking him seriously.

“Now, now, Franco, dahling, you’re not pissed off about this stupid article, are you? It’s nothing, just putting the story straight; I did you a favour; she’s a deceitful cow, now, let me get you a drink; how did the game go?”

The bitch hadn’t even bothered to watch the game. She wandered into the kitchen to pour drinks. Fuming, Franco followed her and pulled her around to face him.

“I’m serious, Maria. You have to go. I am not in love with you, and if you are honest nor you with me, we tried but it’s just not happening. We are over.”

As normal, she started to turn away from him, looking for something to busy herself with, ignoring his words, pretending it wasn’t happening. He was having none of

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it; grabbing her shoulders, he pulled her back to face him.

His head close to hers.

“Listen to me, Maria…WE ARE OVER…you have to understand it once and for all,” she looked back at him with a blank smile.

“You obviously lost, dahling, you’re in a bad mood… never mind, dis eez football, up one minute, down the next,” she tried to soothe him, stroking his chest, batting her baby-doll eyelashes.

“Shit Maria, you have no idea, do you? I’m deadly serious. Be honest, you don’t love me, you love the WAG status and the credit cards, and I have stupidly gone along with it out of loneliness. Let you take over my life, my apartment, and how do you repay me? You go to the press with more crap for them to hang me by, as if they didn’t have enough already... and now my game is being affected, I fucked it today. This is not working, this is my space, and I want you out of it now!”

The next few hours were messy but she finally agreed to leave. It was agreed that Michael would bring her things over the next day. As the door shut behind her, Franco fell onto the sofa with a sense of relief. He got straight on the phone and organized with Michael to move Maria’s stuff. He could hear the congratulations, finally! in Michael’s voice, and smiled to himself. Then wondered if it had all gone a little too smoothly.

After taking the stuff to Maria’s, Michael would pick Franco up from training and bring him to Ned’s office, they needed to discuss the fallout from Maria’s story and the Sporjakk campaign. The client had come up with 445

some salvage ideas for Franco to consider and asked for a meeting. He hoped that Tara would be there, he missed her and wanted her back, having Maria out of the way would be a good first step.

He went to bed that night looking forward to the next day for the first time in a long while, all thoughts of red cards forgotten.

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Chapter Fifty-Nine David busied himself in the kitchen. Pouring two glasses of red wine, he called her to come through and join him.

Finding a comb in the bathroom cabinet, she ran it through her bedraggled hair and pulled the towelling robe tight around her. This was bizarre; she had been drugged and kidnapped and here he was acting as if they were lovers about to share a romantic meal together. Why didn’t she mind?

She assumed that she had been there about twenty-four hours. No one would notice her missing; work didn’t expect her in as she was on sick leave. She wasn’t due to meet the girls till Friday lunch, her mum was used to her not calling for weeks on end, she could go missing for days and no one would pick up on it. Maybe Seb, maybe not… unless he liked the new Sporjakk idea and wanted to meet, did he really know Michael? Who would think of looking for her here?

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She could hear romantic Spanish guitar music coming from the kitchen. She walked uneasily from the bathroom into the bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed, and surveyed the scene. Candles dotted the room, flickering a soft, hazy light. Silk ties trailed from bedposts to the centre of the bed and mingled with tousled white sheets.

It looked a scene freshly abandoned by bondage lovers, she shivered.

Walking cautiously down the corridor, she could see him at the far end in the kitchen. He was lost in thought, humming to the music, conducting the air with a large wooden spoon, flamboyantly pouring red wine into a saucepan and stirring in time to the melody. His mind off her for the moment... a good opportunity to escape!

As she got to the front door, she stopped, checked he was not looking, and pulled on the heavy handle. The latch was stuck firm, she pulled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, in her fury she kicked it. David looked up nonchalantly from his work.

“Sorry love,” he shouted merrily, “didn’t I tell you? I’ve double locked and hidden the key; no way out I’m afraid.

All windows and doors locked, all phones hidden... including yours, babes… never mind... chill… sit down and have a glass of wine while I cook supper, you’re gonna love this.”

His relaxed, calm attitude annoyed her, he was so confident that she could just sit back and enjoy herself.

What planet was he on? Giving the door a final kick of desperation, she did as she was told and sat in front of him at the breakfast bar, arms crossed, jaw set tight, miserable, as he cooked her supper.

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She watched him quietly, he certainly knew his way around a kitchen, which was more than she could say, cooking was not her strong point. He made it fun, dramatically chopping up herbs and spices, pouring concoctions from great heights, as if preparing some exotic cocktail. Everything was done with a flourish as he talked her through it, teaching her as he went. He knew she was no good in the kitchen, he had seen her at work… she burnt boiled eggs.

He took a quick slurp of his wine, noticing she hadn’t touched hers, he said, “not thirsty? It’s a delicious vintage, dahling, try it.”

“Oh yeah, and have you drug me again like last time. I don’t think so,” she said defiantly, tightening her arms around her body.

“Yes, you’re right to be suspicious... here, take mine,” he swapped his glass with hers and took a healthy slurp.

“See, not dead,” he smiled cheekily.

Oh, what the hell she needed a drink; she grabbed his glass and took a sip. The gloriously smooth liquid rippled down her throat, instantly warming. He was right, it was delicious and the food smelled good too. She suddenly realised that she was starving.

He turned out to be good company. He joked and regaled silly stories of Helen in her youth, they were almost enjoying themselves. Every now and then she would pull herself up and remind herself of where she was, but his funny relaxed banter made it difficult to stay on guard for long.

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The food ready, he served it out onto two huge white plates and set them and fresh glasses on the dining table.

The final touch was a candle, another scene for lovers.

Handing her a second bottle of red wine and a corkscrew, “here, you’d better open it, then you know I haven’t poisoned your glass,” he teased.

Shit, they were on their second bottle already, although he had cooked with most of it. She was feeling slightly tipsy; she wished she could just relax into the evening and have a giggle with him. He was charming, warm and funny, not to mention bloody gorgeous. His robe kept falling open above the belt, exposing his very fit sixpack... probably spends all his time in the gym and under a sun-bed, shame he’s gay... wait a minute, he was getting horny in the bath... urrrgh... probably thinking about Seb, she felt strangely disappointed... lucky Seb! They ate in silence, the food was wonderful. She watched him, trying to work him out. He seemed so nice, but then she would remember the pictures she had seen the night before and the tone in his voice as he told her to look at them. Bet he was a Gemini, two people in one and all that. She wondered what it had said in her star sign yesterday: your moon is in Virgo, fighting with Uranus… you will be abducted by a tall, dark, handsome stranger… the end is nigh… phone us now on this very expensive number to find out your monthly forecast.

They finished their plates at the same time, falling back on their chairs with a satisfied sigh.

“That tasted so good, David, thank you, I should get abducted more often,” Tara laughed.

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“By the end of the night, I’m going to kiss you, Tara; is that OK with you?” he was suddenly serious, “now you wash up and I’ll get the Scrabble board, can you play Scrabble?”

His change of tack caught her by surprise. Why was he messing with her mind, and why didn’t she mind the thought of kissing him? Keep calm.

“Err… yes, but I’m not very good… look, I want to go home now, David. I’ve had a lovely time, but it’s late, I’m tired. Can we do Scrabble another night? Where are my clothes?” trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Later… you can go home later. Go on, let’s play Scrabble. You can make up any words you like, just like you and Helen used to do in the holidays, no strict rules, just for fun. I did cook you dinner and besides, it’s too early to go home yet,” he persuaded.

“Ok, just one game then home,” she agreed, deciding to humour him.

In one way, it all seemed so normal, two friends hanging out, enjoying each other’s company, in another, she knew she didn’t have a choice, the door was locked. The wine softened her, she enjoyed being near him. Apart from being beautiful, he had a seductive way about him; he was warm, attentive, sexy, and flirtatious. He made her feel good.

His attentiveness was hypnotic; he seemed to read her mind, knew what she wanted before she asked for it; a window closed from the chill, a pillow, more wine.

Always one step ahead, watching her, staring lovingly 451

into her face, as if he saw amazing beauty, she was the most important thing in the world to him. It felt good to be adored; flattering, safe. Then, just as his compliments were getting too sickly sycophantic, he would back off, change tack and border on being disrespectful, rude, tease her about her lousy spelling, her lack of general knowledge, split ends in her hair, being a little overweight. His mind games fed her with yo-yoing pleasure and shame; she got a strange exciting buzz from being with him... weird or what, enjoying the company of your kidnapper!

Scrabble went on for hours; they played game after game, laughing until their sides ached. He would gently tuck a loose strand of hair from her face behind her ear, or push her shoulder playfully when she accused him of cheating; it seemed comfortable to let him touch her, she began to will it.

She found herself watching the slow measured movement of his beautiful long lean fingers as he carefully chose letters and placed them on the board. She had a strange feeling that she knew what his hands felt like. She watched his mouth as he talked and knew the feel of his lips, the softness of his kisses. Why was that? How could she know?

The den pictures of him in her bed flashed into her mind.

Were they real or computer wizardry? Had he come to her in the night, was he the cause of the wet dreams she had been having? No, it was unthinkable, no one could get away with that, she was imagining it... in your dreams girl, he’s gay!

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“I wish I had known you properly at school,” she blurted, without thinking, “if I had known you were so much fun, I would never have written that letter.”

His hand stopped mid-air over the scrabble board, he was about to add the final letter to the word he was compiling, absolution. His eyes turned on her, loathing flashed across his face. Feeling uncomfortable, she turned away, wishing she had kept her big mouth shut, the atmosphere ruined.

“I’m so sorry, Dav...”

He stood up, not waiting to hear her apology, and violently threw the letter onto the board, disrupting their tree of words. He towered over her, his gown falling open showing his nakedness beneath. She looked up at him...

God, he’s beautiful.

He bent down, took her hand and yanked her to her feet, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket. She let out a squeal of pain; he ignored it and marched toward the bedroom, dragging her behind him.

“David I’m sorry... please, you’re hurting me... what are you doing? I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just having such a good time, I didn’t realize how nice you were, please… I want to go home,” as they passed the front door she lunged at it, trying to escape; he yanked her again with such force she smashed into the opposite wall.

He ignored her scream and carried on to the bedroom.

Closing the door behind them, he swung her around and threw her up against it with a thud. He pulled open her 453

gown and pushed his body onto her. She stood open mouthed in shock as he looked down at her, watching her face. Skin on skin, his mouth close to hers, he spoke.

“Can I kiss you now, Tara?” his warm breath mixed with intoxicating wine hit her face, the serpent was willing her to say yes.

“No, let me go, please, you said I could after the game, please,” he didn’t move.

“I want to leave now,” she said unconvincingly.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted, she liked feeling his body pressed against her, it must be the wine... this is ludicrous. She stared up at his face.

His hands started to tease, all the while he watched her eyes, noting their every flicker, they would guide him around her body. He started with her neck; he knew it drove her crazy. She rolled her head to the side to get away from him... shit!

“Get off me David; I thought you were fucking gay…”

“Don’t be so suburban, putting us all in boxes, Tara. I like beautiful things, male, female; why not try both. Life is too short to be constrained by rules set by mere mortals.”

She felt his cock nudge against her stomach. His hands moved down to her chest; he squeezed her nipples hard, waiting till she moaned with pain.

“That hurts; don’t do that,” she lied, her head tilting back against the door.

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He grinned to himself, he knew when her no’s meant yes, she was getting there. His hands slid behind her back to hold her buttocks, pulling them into him, holding her steady, as he rubbed his groin against her like a dog in heat.

She should have fought him off, punched him, instead she held onto his shoulders and looked down, watching him grind against her... shit, he’s big. She joined the rhythm, rolling her hips in a figure eight, his cock got bigger. She raised her face to his, their mouths unbearably close, she wanted him so bad it hurt.

“Kiss me now,” she breathed, barely able to speak.

He grinned, the bitch was ready, it was so easy, she wanted him.

“Beg me Tara, beg me to kiss you.”

“What?” confused.

“Beg me, bitch, tell me you want me, tell me.”

He eased away from her body and slipped his hand down between her legs, she was wet. Her eyes closed with pleasure. “Beg me Tara, beg me,” his fingers rubbed slowly backwards and forwards.

She knew he was hard, he was just as excited as her, fuck him if he thought she was going to beg.

“Fuck you David; you wanna do it, do it. I’m not gonna beg you, you want it just as much as me, you and your bloody games!”

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He laughed, she was stronger than he thought, this would be fun. He set his hand to work, kneading his thumb over her clit with just the right amount of pressure, gently at first then building. She let out a groan; her eyes disappeared beneath halfclosed lids.

“Shit,” she rasped, “you bastard, you know what you’re doing… don’t stop...”

He had her. He knew his victim well, he had studied her.

“Say it Tara beg me, go on, beg me… or I stop.”

He increased the pressure; she rode his hand, trembling with waves of pleasure.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop… I beg you, I beg you, please.”

“Please what?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, she was going to come.

“Please WHAT Tara, tell me or I stop,” he began to pull his hand away.

“No, don’t... don’t,” she grabbed his hand and held it to her.

“Please kiss me David, please fuck me… I beg you,” she no longer cared what she said.

He sank his mouth onto hers; he heard the words he needed to hear. She had begged him, wanted him. More than anything else in the world at that moment, she had

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wanted him. He pushed his tongue deep into his angel’s mouth, searching out her gasps of pleasure as she ate him back, hungry for his sex. He had waited so long to take her like this, for her to beg him, want him, need him; it was better than he imagined.

She was going to come; he could feel it. She was soaking wet, and her groaning was getting louder. He pulled his hand away, lifted her up onto his hips, wrapped her legs around his waist and entered her hard. Sinking in deep, she let out a scream; her shoulders fell back against the door. He held her waist and pumped and pumped, her head thrashing against the door. He fucked her so hard he thought the doorframe would crack. She didn’t care.

God, she was beautiful. She hung onto him like a cat until they both came; screaming into the air, sweat pouring off them. They slid to the floor with exhaustion.

He had forgotten his customary condom... shit! he would worry about that later…

His angel had finally come to him, the joy cut bittersweet as it meant his life with her was coming to an end. As they lay on the floor, she snuggled up under his arm getting her breath back, a tear built in the corner of his eye, why couldn’t she have always been like this?

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Chapter Sixty It was midnight before she got home. Franco had chucked her out for good, this time he was determined.

He was wrong of course, she knew she was right for him, but she just had to get him to see it. To win him back she would go to plan B. She had a little trick that she had used on a previous departing lover. She had cried wolf by taking an overdose and it had worked. He had felt so guilt-ridden that she could have died, that he had proposed to her, perched on the end of her hospital bed as she came around from the drug induced coma.

She had to time it perfectly. She knew that Michael would be coming around in the morning with her boxes.

He was meticulous about punctuality (all that bloody army training) and would arrive in plenty of time to get her to the hospital.

Opening a bottle of wine, she started her preparations.

She bathed in sweet smelling oils, dressed in a demure

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full length silk nightdress, curled her beautiful long hair and expertly applied her makeup, not too sexy siren, more the sweet innocent girl next door look. She wrote a heart-rending note to Franco, stating her undying love and how she couldn’t live without him.

She worked through the night; by 6 a.m. she was pissed.

She had drunk enough to go through with her plan. The alarm went off to let her know it was time. She staggered to the front door and left it off the latch, then wandered around the flat for a last-minute check that all was in order. She sat on the edge of the bed and proceeded to swallow as many pain killers and sleeping pills as she could stand, knocking them back with the dregs of her third bottle of wine, and then a bottle of gin, trying not to be sick.

She lay back on the bed and arranged herself as if in a model shoot, her hair spread out over the pillows. She closed her eyes, as the fog came down a smile beamed across her perfect face… Mrs. Franco Rossellini.

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Chapter Sixty-One The Mercedes pulled up to Maria’s block of flats, just off busy Knightsbridge. As Michael jumped out of the car, he whistled to himself; he was in a good mood. Franco was finally getting rid of Ms. Moodyknickers, she was on her way out. The car was full of her belongings, packed into boxes. It was amazing how much she had managed to smuggle into the boss’s flat over the months.

Taking the first two boxes from the front seat, he buzzed her number on the entry phone. No answer; he tried again. A city gent was leaving the block, seeing that Michael was juggling with the boxes and noticing the smart car parked up behind him, he let him in, holding the door open for him.

“Thanks, mate, women eh,” Michael tutted, “she’s probably in the bath.”

Crossing the foyer, he caught the lift as it was closing.

Her front door was on the latch as he arrived, she must have heard the buzzer after all. He pressed the doorbell

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out of politeness and waited, whistling, expecting to hear her screeching voice telling him to come on in. He began to calculate how many trips he would need to get the ten boxes up here; he should be done in about twenty minutes, great. After dropping the boss off at his agent’s office, he had promised to meet up again with Seb. They had planned for Seb to pop in on David unannounced that morning to see if he could get any more information on Tara. He had liked Seb, fancied him even, if only he had been a few years younger. He doubted Seb would go with the likes of him, but anyway he was good fun and was needed to help sort out the current incident with the least amount of fuss.

He pressed the bell again, where was the dizzy bird?

“Maria, ’ello, its Michael, Franco sent me, I’ve your stuff,” he bellowed through the letter box.

No answer. He checked the name of the flat, yep, it was the right address. He pushed open the door and peered inside. The lights were on but no sound “’ello, Maria?”

Shit, where was she, he needed to get on... bloody bitch, she’s probably playing games again. He left the boxes in the hall and jumped back in the lift to collect the others.

It took him four trips to and from the car. He finally came up with the last three boxes and piled them neatly in her hallway. Standing hands on hips, getting his breath back, he looked around, listening for any sign of life, from the corridor he couldn’t see much.

“Hello?”

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He contemplated shutting the door and leaving; he had done what he was supposed to do, the boxes were off his hands and the boss would be waiting. But something was not right; he couldn’t put his finger on it, the place felt eerie... maybe I should have a quick look around.

Crouching in back-to-the-wall combat mode, he slipped quietly into each doorway, scanned the room and moved on. He felt ridiculous in his smart black suit, stalking around like commando man, but better safe than sorry.

He could smell alcohol, and something else, acidy. It got stronger as he moved to the back of the flat.

He found her in the master bedroom, laid out on the bed.

He thought she was sleeping at first, until he touched her arm to wake her, she was cold and lifeless. A low gurgling sound came from her throat; vomit was dribbling out of her mouth down her neck to the pillow, ruining the scene of beauty she had so painstakingly produced.

With experienced eyes, he took in the rest of the room.

Empty pill and alcohol bottles lay around the bed. The lady had obviously decided to put an end to it all, or attempt to make it look that way.

She was still alive.

He read the note to Franco left on the bedside table, dramatic over the top drivel proclaiming her undying love for him and without him she was nothing. The scene had obviously been staged. The room was immaculately tidy, recently cleaned, hover marks still in the carpet. An alarm clock set for 6am and a smiling portrait of Franco stood beside a fresh vase of roses on the bedside table.

Maria lay beautifully Rubenesque over perfectly arranged

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pillows, her silk nightdress fanned out across freshly ironed sheets, her nails and makeup perfectly applied, her hair brushed out over pillows. The front door had been left open. It was a fake cry for help to make Franco take her back.

He sat in the chair, facing the end of her bed and watched her; she had obviously timed it for him to arrive and save her; the little bitch was trying to pull a fast one on Franco, the old guilt trip number.

In any other situation he would have administered first aid to her, rolled her over, unblocked her pipes, removed the sick, and got her to hospital for a stomach pump.

Instead, he sat patiently watching her choke on her own vomit. When the gurgling stopped, he went over to feel her pulse, happy that there was none, he popped the Franco note into his pocket and called for an ambulance.

One less problem for the boss, she obviously hadn’t banked on him being a callous bastard.

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Chapter Sixty-Two Seb sat waiting in the coffee shop for Michael. They had planned to meet that morning for Mission Tara, if she hadn’t shown up over the previous night, and she hadn’t, they had agreed to make a move.

Seb had left countless messages on her phone and buzzed her flat, but no answer. He had met with the Sporjakk guys the previous afternoon; she didn’t show so the meeting went on without her. No one could track her down so it was generally assumed that she had gone into hiding for a few days while things cooled down. But that didn’t sit well with him, she wasn’t a coward, and the new spin was her baby, surely she would have been there.

Sporjakk were happy with the proposal and had sanctioned going ahead if Franco agreed; he was to be briefed that morning. They were anxious to get moving, to start repairing the damage.

He had also put in a few calls to Tara’s mum and Helen, to see if they had heard from her. Not wanting to worry them he light-heartedly said that he was tracking her down for a meeting, but neither had heard from her in the past few days. Gloria Warr was not best pleased; she blew a gasket down the phone at the mention of her daughter’s name. The pictures in the press had caused a hive of excitement in her sleepy country village, how

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could she hold her head up high at the Women’s Institute meetings? The vicar had cancelled tea, twice, the smut had overexcited the paperboy and her bridge class was ruined with sniggering. He got off the line as quickly as possible. Who cared what the WI thought, he had seen those calendars, they certainly were no shrinking violets, those quiet village types were the naughtiest.

Helen hadn’t seen her, but they were due to have lunch on Friday, she would get her to call him if they spoke. He had difficulty hearing Helen amid muffled giggling; he didn’t know what she was doing, but she was obviously having fun. Helen got off the line as quickly as possible, Tara was immediately forgotten.

His timing was not good; the girls were trying out a scene from 9½ Weeks when he called. They had gone a little overboard with the honey; it was dribbling out of control between Helen’s legs at the time, causing problems for Josie who was chasing it up with her tongue before it reached the kitchen floor. Helen, on her back, giggled as she tried to swing her hips up over her head in an effort to change the flow direction; maybe they should have conducted this scene in the shower.

He had one more call to make... where the hell’s Michael? he thought as he punched in the number.

“Hi, Franco, it’s Seb, how ya doin’?”

“Fine, good news, I finally got rid of Maria last night.

Michael’s moving her stuff out this morning,” that explained why Michael was late.

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“Great, about time, boyo… tell me, do you know where Tara is? No one has seen her recently and she didn’t turn up to the Sporjakk meet yesterday, actually, where were you, I thought you were going?”

“Nah… we had a game, couldn’t go in the end but Ned went. I’m due to meet him now, waiting for Michael, he’s late… how did it go?”

“Fine… fine… err…”

Bleep bleep, a text was coming through; maybe it was Tara, Seb needed to get off the line.

“Err… look, if you see Tara, tell her to call me, will you?”

“She’s hardly likely to call me Seb, she’s in a huff about Maria, but now that’s over I might have a go at getting her back. I’ll call her later, if I get her I’ll pass your message on,” a car horn sounded impatiently in the distance, “ok, look, must go, Michael’s finally here, see ya.”

“Yeah, bye.”

He read his text... sori, runnin late, small problem, sorted, will be there in half an hour…Michael.

Seb put his phone back in his pocket. He should wait for Michael but what the heck, he could do this alone, it was time to catch up with David anyway. If all was innocent and Tara was not there, no harm done, he could have a quick shag and be back in time to meet Michael… perfect!

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Chapter Sixty-Three They had spent the night in each other’s arms. He had made love to her over and over. She was completely in his power; she didn’t even mind him placing the bindings on her while they slept; it felt strangely reassuring that he wouldn’t let her go, that he wanted her so badly. His obsession was potent. She knew he was charming her under his spell, but didn’t care; he had become her world.

In the back of her mind, she knew the situation was crazy; a fully grown independent woman letting herself be taken over by a relative stranger. But a part of her felt a sense of relief in giving herself up, in relinquishing the pressure of control. She was safe in his hands, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, he was in love with her, she was his angel. He provided a wonderful escape from her normal day to day life struggles; he took the burden of decision making. She didn’t have to make choices, fight battles, prove anything to anyone, it was easy, her body and mind were empty.

She was a puppet; she lay back and did as she was told.

He fed and washed her, caressed and stroked her, made love to her over and over through the night, until she was an exhausted quivering mess. He gave her pleasure, not pain.

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He lovingly prepared breakfast in bed and fed her like a baby. The tea was drugged to make her sleep but she didn’t mind, he was in charge now, she trusted him. She smiled enjoying the feeling of peace as the drug took hold. His magical hands stroked her head as she fell deeper and deeper into sleep.

“Sleep little one, I’ve work to do, you will be free soon,” he whispered into her ear, waiting for his angel to pass out.

She looked radiant; it was a shame she had to die. He would have preferred to keep her longer, but she would be causing police interest soon, he needed to finish the job, strike her off the list and move on. He had accomplished the first part of the penance by cracking her spirit; she trusted him, wanted him and above all had begged him. His hours of watching tapes and studying what made her tick had paid off. He controlled her mind; she was an open book to play with.

It was tiring looking after someone 24/7, he needed a break. He would give the gym a miss today, humping up and down on his angel was exercise enough. He fancied some fresh air; he would stretch his legs, buy a paper and have a coffee whilst savouring the thought of her finale.

Checking she was asleep, he gently covered her body in blankets, he didn’t want her to get cold, it would slow the blood on incision. He jumped off the bed and into the shower. The hot water felt good on his body. He thought about burning the carcass after the dissection, rather than leaving it as a trophy for the police to find. He had not been using a condom; she was full of his DNA, it was best to burn everything. He scrubbed hard, erasing her smell.

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The doorbell rang out, making him jump. Who the hell could that be? Wrapping a towel around his middle, he ran to Tara, making sure she was still asleep, he pulled the cover over her face and answered the door; it was Seb. Seb smiled, happy to have caught him wet from the shower, he looked sexy as hell.

“What you up to, stranger? You didn’t call last night, so I thought I’d come and track you down for a coffee... or something..,” he winked suggestively at David’s groin area, and stepped forward to be let in.

“Mmmmm, coffee or cock? cock or coffee?” mused David, holding his cock through his towel, “what shall I choose… mmmm… it’s a hard one,” he chuckled, looking down at the bulge in his towel.

“You bet it is,” Seb squeezed his own cock through his jeans.

“I think I will have both, come on in big boy, let’s put the kettle on.”

He stood back for Seb to enter. Seb cheekily skipped into the hallway, taking David’s towel with him as he passed, ignoring David’s pleas of mock horror, he ran on in to the kitchen, in search of the kettle.

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Chapter Sixty-Four Josie had not been home for days. She had been ignoring her phone and was majorly pissing off her agency. Helen had called in on her behalf to say that she was sick, but they were not amused. Her impatient regulars were giving them a hard time. She knew it was risky, she could lose business, a new girl would be shipped in to fill her sessions, the regulars may end up preferring the new girl to her. But what the hell, she was having a good time hanging out with Helen, besides she rarely had a holiday.

They had hardly surfaced from the bedroom in days.

Luckily Helen’s fridge and bar were well stocked; they phoned out for pizza, Indian, and Chinese. They spent their time cuddled up, talking, eating, watching dodgy old movies, and discovering the delights of the vagina.

They took labia worship to a new level. Helen had taken to peering at Josie’s with a min-flashlight and magnifying glass.

It felt weird to see it from a guy’s angle. All oldfashioned comparisons with flower petals and oysters were true; it was beautiful. Helen wondered why the hell she hadn’t paid much attention to her little pot of gold

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before; she should have gotten a mirror out and had a bloody good look long ago, see what her lovers see. Why didn’t women get to know their bodies? Men were more than familiar with their pieces of kit. Vaginas were amazing; they didn’t gag in your throat, shoot in your eye, or give you lock jaw; they were soft, pink, responsive, warm, welcoming pieces of heaven that tasted delish.

In between the vagina worship, they talked and talked, in their own cocooned world. That morning they were playing the truth game (not to be recommended, it always causes trouble), confessing secrets they were ashamed of.

“Well, you now know mine, I finally confessed to you guys I was a hooker,” giggled Josie, “I kept that secret for years, it was awful lyin’ to you guys, wish I’d known you’d love it, ‘el,” she playfully hit her friend.

“Telling you is the best fing I’ve done in a long time, it’s a weight off my shoulders. I swear I was turning to drink wiv the worry of it…”

Josie lay back on the bed, her head propped up by the multitude of colourful cushions adorning it. Helen was going for the sexy harem Arabian night look. But it looked less of a harem and more of a rubbish tip.

Chocolate wrappers, biscuit packets, orange peel, beer bottles and magazines lay around their entwined bodies.

“I suppose it’s my turn to confess something; there is something, something so horrible I don’t understand how I could do it…”

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Helen turned on her stomach to lie alongside Josie, leaning up on her elbows; she turned to face her, their bare legs locked around each other. Helen looked worried, Josie braced herself... oh gawd, what’s wrong? she thought nervously, not quite sure she wanted to hear Helens confession, maybe the truth game wasn’t such a good idea.

“I’ve been behaving like a complete bitch, Josie,” she took a big breath, “I’ve been stalking T…” “What do you mean, stalking T, don’t be so silly…,” giggled Josie, not understanding her.

“Well, not stalking exactly, but I’ve been giving her the nuisance phone calls, leaving disturbing messages on her phone, trying to frighten her... Oh God, I’m so ashamed,” tears started to well up in Helen’s face.

“I don’t know why, I love her, truly I do, but I can’t help it… I must be sick, deranged.”

“Oh ‘el, that’s not so bad, it must be a joke or sumfing.

Don’t get upset, you were only playin’ wiv ’er,” Josie tried to console her, confused, not understanding what her friend was saying.

“No, it’s no joke. I really wanted to hurt her, frighten her.

I even scratched stuff on her car… and Franco’s car,” Helen bowed her head in shame, tears welling in her sad eyes.

“Why baby?” asked Josie softly as she stroked her lover’s head. Still getting used to the idea of being able to be this close to her.

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“I don’t know, jealousy, I guess. T has bloody everything, looks, a job, she’s bright, everyone adores her, including Seb; it gets on my nerves… yet…”

She grabbed a tissue and hurriedly wiped her eyes. “…I would die if I lost her as a friend. It’s weird; I love her and hate her, what craziness is that, Josie?”

She looked quizzically at her friend.

“I don’t deserve her friendship. I’m so ashamed. It’s so bloody stupid of me… when she tells the police, they will trace the calls to me. I don’t know why I did it and I don’t know what to do…”

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Chapter Sixty-Five The kettle hadn’t even begun to boil and Seb was on his knees in the kitchen. He had arrived not two minutes earlier, gone to the kitchen to make coffee, was plugging in the kettle when the naked David followed up behind and pushed him down onto his knees.

“Suck on this, boy… it’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

David snarled, loving the power over Seb, the fact that Tara was lying a few feet away added to the thrill.

He looked down at Seb’s bobbing head, expertly carrying out his instruction with one hand and furiously wanking his own cock with the other. For a beginner, Seb was a fast learner, catching up on all those lost years, no doubt.

It was a shame that he would also have to die, but he couldn’t afford any loose ends.

“Jeeeezzz, that is so good, boy,” David threw back his head relishing the excitement building in his cock, “don’t stop, boy… don’t stop!”

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He sounded like his Headmaster, his voice taking on a craggy, old tone; no wonder the old boy had loved this so much. The memory was too much, he let out a loud moan of pleasure, fell back onto the kitchen units, and started to explode, Seb joined him.

Short, sharp, satisfying oral… bloody fantastic.

They remained where they were as their bodies calmed down, Seb kneeling on the floor and David leaning back against the units, a big grin, cock in hand, surveying the scene.

The silence after their noisy groans of pleasure was awkward for Seb; he still had not gotten used to the unashamed debauchery; his Catholic upbringing shot guilt through him. Suddenly uncomfortable, he stood up, zipped up his fly, wiped his hands on the towel he had stolen earlier, and politely handed it back to David.

The kettle clicked to the boil, breaking the ice.

“Coffee, David?” Seb asked, as if nothing had happened, unable to look him in the eye.

“Yeah, great… back in a min, I’m gonna put some clothes on boy,” he chucked the towel over his shoulder and sashayed out of the room.

Seb watched him, David was something else, he had the power to invoke shame and excitement in the same moment. To make you feel like cheap trash or his precious love. When he flashed one of his smiles you were lost, he was irresistible.

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Reluctantly remembering what he was there for, he quickly made two coffees whilst glancing around the flat for any sign of Tara. There was none. One thing that did catch his eye was a bottle standing by the sink… a baby’s bottle! What the hell was that for? How strange, maybe for one of David’s more interesting games! Seb quivered... he’s not putting that up me ass!

Picking up the two coffees, he quietly tiptoed through the living room down the hallway. He sneaked past the bedroom door and on to the den, careful not to spill the steaming coffee. The door was ajar, he poked his head around it and tried to see into the room, the light was dim, it took a while to focus.

On the wall in front of him, he saw photographs of what looked like an old man lying in a forest, with close-ups of objects he couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t have much time, so he moved his focus on to the next wall. With a jolt, he realized it was a shrine to Tara, pictures of her littered the wall. She was in all sorts of positions and places, with friends, lovers and alone.

Seb’s stomach flipped, this was not good. Michael was right, his heart sank... trust me to give my virginity to a bloody nutter, he groaned. He heard the noise of a cupboard being closed in the bedroom, his body shook, coffee spilt to the ground.

“Fuck!” he cursed under his breath.

Fear crept through him; he was suddenly scared of David, of what he was capable of. He summoned up courage and walked back down the hallway, performed a polite little cough outside David’s bedroom door and barged into the bedroom, kicking the door open with his boot.

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“Coffee is served, Sir… white with no sugar, just as Sir likes it.”

He put on the mock voice of a posh waiter, looking as innocent as he could, stepping bravely into the room, not quite sure what he was looking for, or what to do next.

Finding David leaning into a wardrobe, he smiled at him brightly and held out the coffee mug.

“Sorry, it’s instant, can’t be bothered with all that grinding of beans, shit… it takes forever.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a mound in the bed covered with a blanket. He pretended not to notice it and threw himself onto the chaise lounge at the end of the bed, ready to watch David get dressed.

“What you doing today then, lover boy?” he asked cheekily, hoping the shaking in his voice couldn’t be heard. David stood slowly up to full height and bore down on him.

“What the FUCK do you think you are doing in here? I didn’t invite you, GET OUT!” David screamed, pointing at the door.

David’s eyes darted nervously to the bed; Tara was sleeping, covered completely by a blanket, the bed so messy that you couldn’t tell she was there. A quick glance round showed that no betraying female clothes were lying on the floor.

Seb jumped, “ok, ok… keep your hair on, what’s got into you?”

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“GET OUT, NOW!” David knew he was overacting, but he could not take the chance of Tara moving and giving the game away; he had to get Seb out of there fast.

“This is my private space; I didn’t ask you in here, it’s time you left anyway. I’m busy… take your disgusting coffee with you. I don’t do instant; it’s for the cleaning lady you moron.”

He chucked the mug back at the rapidly retreating Seb, spilling it as he did so. Seb backed out of the room, not before noticing strange ties at the end of the bed as he pulled the door shut behind him. What the hell was wrong with David, he was furious, badly shaken. He had obviously touched a nerve. What was the mound in the bed? If it was a person it didn’t move, it was either dead, out of it, or just his imagination.

Running down the hallway, he should have just put the mugs down on the hallway table and gone out the front door, but good manners had him instinctively going back to the kitchen to find the dishwasher, it also gave him time to think.

“All right, bloody hell, David, relax, I’m going. Jeez, you got PMS or something?” he shouted from the kitchen, David still in the bedroom getting dressed.

Opening the dishwasher, he chucked the unwanted coffee down the sink and placed the mugs neatly on the top shelf. He noticed place settings for two had already been stashed in the machine; they looked as if they had been from a meal from the night before. Two red wine stained glasses and two plates, knives, and forks. Dinner a duex, who had he been entertaining last night?

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His stomach tightened, could it be Tara? She’s an avid red wine drinker… nah, so is half the country, stupid!

Where the fuck is she? On a hunch he pulled out his phone and called her number... for the hundredth time, but what the hell.

While waiting for her to miraculously pick up, a buzzing sound came from a cupboard above the sink. Absent mindedly, he opened the cupboard to see where the noise was coming from, one hand holding the ringing phone to his ear and one eye on the corridor waiting for David to reappear.

Reaching into the cupboard, he could see nothing but cans of chopped tomatoes, jars of sauces and packets of herbs. The sound became louder; it was almost a vibrating sound now. Pushing the cans aside, he reached in to the back of the cupboard. His hand fell on a solid piece of plastic that had a life of its own. He retreated with shock, then reached in and pulled it out. It was a phone; all lit up like a mini spaceship. It was ringing on vibrate, with the words ‘Seb Maloney’ written on the screen as an incoming call.

“Holy shit…,” Seb cursed under his breath, it was Tara’s phone, “oh my God!” Staring at it, as it flashed in his hand, the seriousness of the situation hit him. What should he do? Was she in the bedroom? Should he storm in there and get her out?

Should he get Michael and come back mob handed? If he was honest, he was frightened of David; he could hold his own in a rugby scrum but he was not sure he could handle David single-handed. He needed help. He put the 479

phone back as it was, lining the cans in front of it and closed the cupboard.

At that moment, David came out of the bedroom, fully dressed in black jeans and black polo jumper, his hair neatly combed. Seb jumped nervously, pretending to be closing the dishwasher.

“Ok, ok, I’m gone, give me a call when you’ve calmed down,” he said, sounding as pissed off as he could muster, “you’re a shit, David, do you know that… fuck you!”

Saying nothing, David held the front door open as a sign for his guest to leave. He monitored Seb’s eyes as he walked by, to see if he was suspicious… no, just pissed off at being rejected, spoiled little brat.

He slammed the door shut after him... that boy is definitely next on the list!

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Chapter Sixty-Six Running down the Brompton Court Road, relieved to be out of the flat in one piece, Seb felt a pang of guilt for leaving Tara, if indeed she was there. Reaching the coffee shop, he peered in the window searching for Michael, no sign of him. He scoured the street for the Mercedes... where the hell is he?

His phone buzzed impatiently in his pocket; he had a text message. ‘change of plan, am at Franco’s flat, meet here asap.

Michael x’ He thought the kiss a bit cheeky. Michael’s way of taking the piss no doubt. He would deal with him later; meanwhile, he needed to sort Tara out.

No sooner had he replied ‘ on my way’, the phone rang... jeez, it doesn’t rain but it pours, what the hell did we ever do before phones? he wondered.

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“HELLO,” he shouted into the receiver, not recognizing the number, hoping it wasn’t work; he was skiving off that day; the traffic made it difficult to hear.

“HELLO,” he repeated louder. “Seb, it’s Helen, I need to get hold of Tara; do you know where she is?”

Helen had decided to come clean with Tara about her jealousy and the stalking. Josie had persuaded her to apologize before the police got involved, but they couldn’t find her.

“No, I’m still trying to find her myself,” hesitantly he added, “look, Helen, I think she’s in trouble, maybe you had better meet me, you could help. What are you doing now? I’m meeting Michael at Franco’s flat... it could be serious.”

“Who’s Michael? Why, what’s happened? Where is sh...”

“Look, I haven’t got time to talk now. I’m trying to catch a cab. It’s the Penthouse, 14 Argyle Place West; it would be good if you could come… I’ll tell you all then, ok?”

“Tell me what? Your frightening me, is she ok?”

“Just get there, Helen...”

He was getting irritated, and no cabs with their lights on... bugger, where the feck was a cab when you needed one?

She heard the impatience in his voice.

“Ok, 14 Argyle Place West,” she repeated, “it’s just

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around the corner; we’ll be there in a minute,” she agreed.

“Wow… wait a minute,” she was about to hang up, “who the hell’s we? This is not a feckin’ garden party, you know.” “Josie, I’m with Josie, a good friend of Tara’s.

We’ll be there in a minute,” she hung up before he could protest further.

Jesus, now the prostitute was coming as well. This was turning into a carnival; it was only supposed to be him and Michael, now Franco, Helen, and Josie.

“Oh feckin hell,” he shouted into the street, Helen was David’s sister, “shyte!” he’d forgotten.

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Chapter Sixty-Seven Once Michael had finished with the police at Maria’s flat, he drove back to Franco’s. He had told the police everything (except that she was still alive when he got there). She had left the door open; she had wanted to be found, it looked like a cry for help that had gone wrong.

But they could not rule out foul play until the autopsy reports were in. They would need to interview Franco.

Michael was pissed off. Franco had enough attention without being seen to walk into a police station. On hearing the news from a distraught Franco, Ned had called Michael and told him to sit tight with Franco at the apartment while he sought legal advice and prepared a statement for the press.

At the apartment, Franco was white with shock.

“Shit, Michael, why the hell did she do it? What a waste.”

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He couldn’t take in what had happened, for all her faults, Maria was a beautiful vibrant woman; he couldn’t believe she was gone, it was all his fault.

“She always did manage to have the last word… I guess she’s got me back big time now,” head in hands he slumped onto the sofa, “what now, wait for the police?

What did Ned say? Has anyone told her parents?”

The doorbell rang. Michael went to the intercom, wondering if it was Seb; he hadn’t told Franco about Seb and Tara yet. It was not his boss’s day.

“Hiya,” a chirpy voice effervesced through the speaker, echoing through the flat, “it’s only me; Anton... is the lovely Franco there?”

Anton, what could he want? Maybe he had a message from Tara.

“Yeah, let him up, Michael, he’s cool.”

Michael pressed the buzzer with instructions to take the lift to the top floor. He also knew Anton was ‘cool’, he had done a bit of snooping on him over the last few weeks, his research showed that Anton, a screaming queen, was kind, well loved, and trustworthy. He had shown his allegiance to Franco by not cashing in on the press frenzy.

Michael left the front door ajar, walked over to the kitchen area, and put the kettle on. His Irish grandmother had always said, “in times of strife, make a pot of tea.”

He kept a watchful eye on Franco, who was huddled up on the sofa, his head bent in grief over Maria; he wasn’t 485

going to enjoy broaching the subject of Tara. The boss certainly knew how to choose his women.

Anton burst into the room, a breath of fresh air, arms full of flowers and a box of chocolates. He jogged across the room to the sofa and plopped himself down beside the miserable Franco. His jog reminded Michael of a beautiful Lipizzaner show horse, with his dainty high lifting ballet steps.

“Franco, dahling, how are you? So glad you are here, just popped in to say how sorry I am about all this press stuff, deary… I want you to know it had nothing to do with me…I would never let your little secret out of the bag, and that Maria is a bitch.”

Franco smiled weakly. Anton continued, oblivious to the fact that Maria was dead.

“Oh, it’s all too horrible, sweetie… here, have some chocolates, a naughty little pick-me-up, and some flowers to brighten up the place,” the gifts were ceremoniously laid out on Franco’s lap.

“Thank you, Anton; it’s good to see you.”

Franco meant it. Anton’s chatter lifted his mood; it was good to see this bundle of fun.

“Have you met Michael? Anton, this is Michael...

Michael, Anton,” the two men nodded at each other.

“Michael’s making tea do you want some?”

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“Oh yes, love some… but let me, you know how I love to take over the kitchen, and it’s such a nice one, great place you have here, Franco… when it’s finished.”

Mindful of the workman’s tools that scattered the floor, he skipped to the kitchen and shooed Michael out from behind the breakfast counter.

“You look so silly, all butch, standing over the tea caddy, deary, let me…”

Happy to let Anton take over, Michael joined Franco.

Sitting opposite him in the easy chair, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, trying to choose his words carefully to explain the latest developments.

The doorbell went again. Looking up at Anton, Michael nodded for him to answer it. It was Seb. Anton buzzed him in and set about adding another cup to the tea tray.

“Aahh… it would be lovely to see Seb,” he muttered, rinsing out a new milk jug that had never been used.

“What’s Seb doing here?” quizzed Franco, worried about how serious his chauffeur was looking.

“Well, I took the liberty of inviting him, Boss. Ya see, Tara has gone missin’ and we think we know where she is. We were going to meet first thing this mornin’ to sort it out, but the Maria thing happened and Ned has asked us to wait here for…”

“What do you mean, she’s gone missin’? Is she safe?

Where is she?” Franco tried to remain calm. First Maria, now Tara; what was going on?

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“Oh my God, Tara,” a squeal from the kitchen, Anton was listening.

“It’s a long story, but the guy who has been taking the photos, and living above Tara, we fink he ’as her. He’s called David. She may ’ave gone around there a few nights ago, and ’asn’t been seen since…”

“Why would he want her? Is he dangerous?” Franco was getting nervous; he hadn’t seen this side of Michael before. If Michael was worried, something serious was up.

“We do not know for sure if he wants to harm her, he could be dangerous, he has previous,” Michael did not go into detail, Franco was looking pale enough.

“Well, let’s tell the police, for Christ’s sake,” Franco stood up, wanting to do something, anything, flowers and chocolates spilled to the floor.

“Maybe, but we don’t know any of this for sure. Seb and I were going to suss it out first before we raise another possible hornets’ nest. You don’t need any more publicity than you ’ave already. Besides, she may be there of her own accord, or she may have gone off for a few days in a huff, who knows? We’re just looking into possibilities.”

Michael gently pushed a confused Franco back down into his seat.

“Let’s wait to see what Seb has to say, ok?” soothed Michael.

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As Seb walked into the room, the doorbell went again, he answered it, knowing who it was, he pressed the intercom to let them in.

“Hiya, Seb… err… who was that?” asked Franco, not sure he was in his own home any more.

“Hello, mate, look, we’ve got to talk.”

Leaving the front door ajar, he joined Franco and Michael around the coffee table.

“It’s Josie and Helen; they’re on their way up.”

“Seb, dahling, do you want tea?” Anton was pleased to see him and waved gleefully from behind the kitchen counter. Worried that he did not have enough cups for them all, he started to scan the cupboards for more, some would just have to have mugs; oh well.

“Anton, what you doin’ here? Good to see ya, mate… err, no thanks, just had coffee. Got anything stronger?”

Seb twinkled at his friend.

“Who the hell are Josie and Helen, Seb? What are they doing here? We have serious things to discuss right now, Tara is missing, we’ve got to find her,” Franco budged up on the sofa for Seb to join him.

“Well, I don’t know what Michael’s told you but Tara’s in big shit. I think… anyway, they’re her best mates, they may be able to help, I think…”

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He hoped they were mates, but it was too late now, as Josie and Helen rushed into the room, slamming the door behind them.

“What’s wrong with T?” demanded Helen, panic-stricken about her friend. Seb had frightened them, they questioned him in unison, “where is she... is she ok... what’s going on... is she hurt?”

As their concerned voices grew louder and louder, Franco put his head in his hands and shouted.

“QUIET…PULEASE!” Ten minutes later, all six of them were huddled around the coffee table, on the arms of the sofa, or on the floor.

Anton had distributed mugs and cups of steaming hot tea, and a glass of brandy for Seb. The chocolates had been opened and passed around.

Michael and Seb filled everyone in on what they knew, with Seb filling in the details of his morning’s events.

Helen interrupted, “who is this David guy, anyway? Do we know him?”

“Well yes, actually we do,” Seb coughed, “it’s your bro Hel,” he waited for the explosion.

“What?” exclaimed Helen, “you’re joking,” not believing it, Josie squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Oh my dear God,” exclaimed Anton, popping another chocolate in his mouth.

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“What?, Tara’s been kidnapped by her brother,” Franco pointed accusingly at Helen, “this is ridiculous; go and talk to him right away and get her back,” he screamed at her.

“Hold on a min, we don’t actually know if she is there or, if so, whether she is there voluntarily or not… my guess is she’s there, involuntarily.”

Seb filled them in on the den pictures, Tara’s phone in the cupboard, the bindings on the bed, the dinner settings for two in the dishwasher, the mound shape in the bed, and David’s freaking out when he entered the bedroom.

“David did have a crush on Tara back in school,” admitted Helen, “but he wouldn’t do this... how do you know David, Seb; what were you doing there anyway? I didn’t know you knew my brother,” Helen snapped, trying to get her head around the thought that her brother could do this.

“Well,” he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret forever, he may as well get it out in the open, besides, it would be a relief.

“David and I are lovers, of sorts,” a hush came over the group. Franco budged along the sofa in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Oh my dear God!” Anton popped another chocolate in his mouth, how come he hadn’t noticed? He must be losing his touch.

More silence.

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Eventually, Helen’s laughter broke the ice; building in crescendo, she laughed and laughed, unable to control herself. They all turned to look at her; she was becoming hysterical.

“You have to be joking,” she gasped as she caught her breath, “all those years I was beating myself up about you, in love with you, making a fool of myself… you were gay…that is too much, how bloody funny…”

“Why funny?” said an indignant Seb, deflated at the reaction to his news. “’Cause so am I,” laughed Helen as she planted a kiss on Josie’s lips.

“You’re having an affair with a hooker?” replied Seb, aghast that Helen was gay.

“Yep, I love her; whatever, besides, she’s coming off the game,” Helen gazed adoringly at Josie, Josie flushed, not enjoying the attention now focused on her.

Anton and Franco looked on in amazement, Franco took a chocolate. Anton reached for the brandy bottle and topped up his teacup. He had only come around to give his condolences to Franco re: the press stories. They were nothing on this lot. He had lived such a sheltered life, he sighed.

“Is anyone in here straight?” asked Franco.

When no one answered, all eyes turned to Michael. He gave a cheeky grin and shrugged his shoulders.

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“Sorry, Boss; you’re in the minority,” he smiled, “now, can we get back to the problem at hand, Tara?”

“We have to go get her,” Anton topped up cups with brandy.

“If she’s there,” snapped Helen, still in disbelief.

Ignoring her, they discussed their options, to go to the police or to go to the flat themselves. It was finally agreed to raid the flat mob handed. Michael talked them through a plan. Knocking back their drinks for courage, they filed out the front door. Anton insisted they arm themselves, and dished out kitchen utensils as they left.

He hadn’t had so much fun in ages. He felt like a member of an elite SAS hit squad. He would put the flowers in water later.

They all squeezed into Franco’s Mercedes, Anton lying across the two girls and Seb in the back. Franco, a little nervous of everyone’s new admissions, sat safely in the front passenger seat, keeping a watchful eye on Michael’s gear changing. He hoped Tara was still straight.

As they pulled away from the curb, two plain-clothes coppers in an unmarked car arrived to interview their suspect. On seeing the Mercedes, they changed tack and followed at a distance.

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Chapter Sixty-Eight As they pulled up to David’s flat, Josie recognized the address.

“Oh shit, I should have known it, but he always wore a mask. David is a new client of mine, into S&M. Bloody hell, who would ’ave thort it,” she went quiet, wondering what he may be capable of, feeling very frightened for her friend, “sorry, ’el, but your bro’s a weirdo.”

Helen was busy dialling her phone.

“Who are you callin’?” demanded Michael, spotting the police car tailing them in the mirror.

“T, she’s gonna pick up, be fine, on a beach somewhere and laugh at all of this,” answered Helen, but there was no answer.

“Do you know anything helpful about the property, Josie: the layout, any weapons?”

Michael spoke in a hard military tone that cut the atmosphere. The seriousness of the situation began to

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dawn. Anton gave a squeal, clutching his weapon of choice, a spatula.

“Well, there is another entrance via the garden. He has French windows in the living room.”

“Right, Anton, once we’re in I want you to run through the flat and open those doors, we may need it as an exit point, OK?” Seb and Anton winked at each other; Michael sounded so macho when dishing out orders.

“Yes sir,” clipped Anton in his best soldier-alert voice.

Helen tried her phone again, no answer. They parked the car in a side street around the corner from the flat.

Michael collected up £1 coins from the gang for the parking meter. Not very SASlike, thought Anton, but no one was safe from London traffic wardens.

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Chapter Sixty-Nine It was the third day, time for his angel’s penance.

His phone rang, Mozart’s violin concerto, he ignored it.

She lay star shaped on the plastic sheet, her naked limbs bound tightly to the four bed posts. Black tape covered her mouth, blocking her screams. Red wine splattered her body, staining her blonde hair. Under the heat of the spotlights she smelt like a brewery, her sluttish makeup streaked down her face, but she still looked a beautiful angel to him.

He surveyed her body for the last time as a whole, and thought back over the past few days. She had been a willing captive, had begged for him, become his puppet.

The chase was over and so was her life. It was a shame to let her go, but, it was time.

“Wake up dear, dissection time.”

Kneeling at the side of the bed, he slapped her face. He wanted her to be awake, to feel the first cut. She started

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to come around. He laughed at the fear that clambered into her eyes, as she registered the blade in his surgical gloved hand. It was a look that befell all his victims; the laboratory animals, the science professor, Father Michael, Ms. Philbeach, the dirty prostitutes, the rent boys and the man who started it all, the Headmaster of Heddington Hall for boys... for perverts more like! He guessed her heart would last out longer than the Head’s had, she was strong, a fighter, he admired her courage.

His phone rang again, he let it ring.

She stared up at him, ashen with fear. He was kneeling over her, holding a blade in his hand, smiling. He was deadly serious, he was going to kill her, carve her up like the photographs in his den. She couldn’t believe it, the loving, kind, fun, man she had been making love to for the past few days had gone. She didn’t recognize this creature; he was two people, an angel and a devil. How could she have been so stupid? She kicked her legs, bucked her hips. She didn’t want to die.

“Shhhhhh, don’t move angel, you only make it worse, shhhhhh,” he calmed, stroking the wet fringe from her eyes.

“Say your prayers honey, it’s time to die.”

“One ‘Hail Mary’ and an ‘Our Father’ should do it, or maybe two, what’s the going rate for slut absolution these days, I can’t remember? Say two of each, just to be on the safe side.”

He took a wet towel and in one stroke, wiped clean a line of skin from neck to pubic bone, forming a neat strip through which to cut. He leaned in for the first incision.

497

Tara shook her head violently, tears streamed from her staring eyes, she screamed through the black tape that stretched across her mouth.

CRASH “What the hell was that…?”

In the distance, he heard a loud crash. Straining his ear to the direction of the noise, he listened, he could hear banging, it was coming from his front door.

“What the hell…,” if that was Seb again, he would kill him; he hated being disturbed, hated uninvited guests.

He dropped the blade impatiently back on the table, and ran out to the hallway, just in time to see an axe coming through the central panel of his front door. The wood splintered noisily as the axe was pulled back through it... what the fuck?

“Who’s there, what the fuck are you doing?” he shouted through the noise as the axe appeared for a second time, crashing through the timber.

It was a bloody burglar, the cheek, he was furious; he pulled at the latch, and opened the door, ready to smash in the face of the culprit, not ready for the horde of bodies that crashed in on top of him.

Michael was proud of his hit squad. After the door opened, he stood back and watched. They had all heard Tara’s muffled screams from outside the flat window, and from a bunch of nervous wimps they had fired up into a killing machine. He was surprised that David had opened the door for them; he had expected to have at

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least another ten goes with the axe before the door was freed. But it had opened and his team had crashed in on the shocked David. All manner of kitchen equipment and fists rained down on him. A frying pan to the head finally knocked him out. He hadn’t needed to use his gun.

As he hit the floor, Anton went into action. Screaming like a banshee, he tip toed daintily over David’s prone body and ran the wrong way down the hallway in search of garden doors. He skipped into the bedroom, saw what he assumed was a dead Tara in a pool of blood, and passed out cold at the foot of the bed.

Franco rushed in after Anton and fell to her side. His heart sank, she looked petrified, wide eyes stared at the array of scalpels on the bedside table. The bastard was going to cut her up; a cold shiver went down his spine, if they had been moments later... He tore off the masking tape and fell across her body, holding her, kissing her, wiping her face, trying to clear away the red liquid.

“Hush baby, you’re ok, we’re here now, it’s all ok.”

She was shaking, he tried to soothe her as his fingers pulled at the ties, he couldn’t get the bindings off her quick enough. There was another commotion going on in the hall, he wondered if David had woken up. Sure the others could cope; he carried on tending to Tara.

As Michael and Seb were tying David up, a battalion of police in full combat gear charged in the front and back doors of the flat, simultaneously. It was a scene straight out of an embassy siege.

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Slight overkill, Michael thought. They were all under arrest.

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Chapter Seventy “Did I miss something? at what stage did Maria die?

What was she doing there anyway, Miss Bloody Busybody?”

“No, no, she wasn’t there… you great pillock!” Anton was great but he wasn’t the brightest, sighed Seb. “The police were investigating her death, a suicide, that’s why they followed us.”

They had spent hours in the police station being questioned. The investigation turned from Maria to David. It seemed that they had accidentally solved a few unsolved murders from the past; the pictures in the den had the police very excited.

Back at Franco’s flat, Anton was dishing out tea and brandy again. They huddled around the coffee table in much the same positions they had been in hours earlier, planning the raid. They didn’t want to leave each other, they had bonded.

501

Tara had been held overnight in hospital for observation, she seemed relatively unharmed, but after the drugs she had been given, the Doctors wanted to keep an eye on her. The gang had tried to visit after they were released from the police station, but were shooed away by nurses and told to come back tomorrow; she needed sleep.

“My own brother… I can’t believe he could be capable of such a thing!” Helen was mortified, “I know he was strange, we never really got on… but how did he ever turn out like this? Poor T, I hope he rots in hell…”

“That’s where devils like to be,” said Seb, under his breath. He was ashamed that he had fallen for David and wondered if he had been next on his list.

“Don’t beat yaself up ’bout it, babes,” soothed Josie, “’e’s gone now; will be banged up for a long time for all those murders, never mind what he did to T.” “Unless he gets off for diminished responsibility or being a minor at the time of the offenses,” corrected Michael.

David was a slippery fish and he could afford the best lawyers. This was not over for a long time yet, he feared.

They would all have a lot to go through with the trial, especially Tara.

Franco sat quietly, seeing Tara like that had upset him to the core. He wanted to murder David with his own hands.

Marie dead and then Tara almost killed. Life was too short; he would see Tara tomorrow and ask her to marry him. He was never going to let her out of his sight again.

With a flourish of bravado, he said it out loud, announcing it to the gang, as if by telling them, it would

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set it into action. It certainly did. They all went bananas with excitement for him.

“YES,” they cheered in unison, smothering him with congratulations, welcoming the good news.

“Get out the champagne Anton, I’m getting married,” enthused Franco.

“The Sporjakk boys are gonna love this, you’re gonna have to walk down the aisle to ‘Gotta See Her,’” giggled Josie.

“She’s got to say yes first,” pointed out Seb. “Oooh, I’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid,” sighed Anton dreamily.

503

Chapter Seventy-One Helen paced the length of Tara’s hospital bed, hissing and muttering to herself. They were alone. Bending over her friend, leaning in close, she whispered into Tara’s ear as she slept.

“You little bitch. I tried to warn him but he didn’t pick up the phone. We nearly had you… Lady Fucking Muck… next time we will.”

Tara began to turn in her sleep, the noise waking her.

Helen straightened up, turned, and walked quietly to the door. Before closing it behind her, she hissed,

“BITCH!!’