Butter Wouldn't Melt (13 page)

‘I have a table at Casa Azul,' he told me. ‘I think their tapas is some of the best in London, and the
jamon
serrano
is beyond the reproach. They do a rather good Rioja too, from one of the smaller bodegas you don't often see in the UK . . .'

He stopped talking as we reached the top of the stairs, because Maggie was coming up and obviously wanted to speak to me. I had a nasty suspicion that she wanted to send me to Mr Prufrock, out of pure cruelty, and it was quickly confirmed.

‘There you are, Pippa. I've been looking for you all morning. Mr Prufrock needs your help down in the archives.'

‘Clive was just taking me to see a client,' I said, defensively, and wondering if her sadism extended to enjoying having me molested.

She thought for a moment before replying.

‘Very well then, but you're to go straight down to the basement as soon as you're back.'

‘OK,' I promised, telling myself that I'd be back at exactly twenty-nine and a half minutes past five even if it meant flirting with Clive Carew all afternoon.

We left the building and caught a cab, which dropped us only a couple of blocks away, where the
restaurant stood in the shade of the enormous glass tower everyone called the erotic gherkin. It was certainly phallic, and Clive tried to make a joke, only to break off in blushing confusion before the end. He obviously found my company deeply embarrassing, and yet had been desperately eager to please, holding the door for me to get in and out of the cab, and at the restaurant too.

Casa Azul was rather nice, a cool, airy space smelling of unusual spices and grilled meat. The client wasn't yet there, and I allowed Clive to steer me to a table, where he ordered glasses of ice-cold sherry and a plate of olives and nuts. He seemed determined to talk, but his embarrassed, halting conversation was almost impossible to follow and I contented myself with nodding and smiling at appropriate intervals. Every now and then he would glance at his watch or out of the big window beside us. Finally his increasingly concerned looks gave way to a smile.

‘Here he is,' he said.

I followed his gaze across the board plaza, to find a man approaching from the direction of the gherkin, a man I recognised. My stomach went tight and I bit my lip. I'd only seen him a couple of times before, but there could be no mistaking the curly, grey-white hair, the prominent nose or the expression of absolute self-confidence. It was Morris Rathwell, and he had to be the client.

At least, I was praying he was, because from what I'd heard he was quite capable of striking up a conversation about spanking or even more embarrassing things, and Clive knew nothing of my little secret. Even if he was the client I had to hope he knew the situation at Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague, or the lunch might prove one of the most embarrassing incidents of my life.

There was no escape. He came in, glanced around, and as his eyes settled on me his mouth turned up into a smile at once so knowing and so lecherous that he might as well have offered to turn me across his knee then and there. I found myself grinning nervously in response, and rising by instinct as he approached the table.

‘Pippa!' he exclaimed. ‘What a nice surprise! And Clive, how are you, you lucky young goat. Landed little Pippa as your trainee, have you?'

Clive was obviously deeply embarrassed, and mumbled something about me only being with him for the day, which Morris ignored completely.

‘Let's see about lunch then,' he declared happily. ‘These nuts won't go very far, will they? If you could tell them to get a bottle of the Gran Reserva breathing, Clive, and I'll have a Manzanilla while you're about it.'

Morris turned his attention to the menu as Clive attempted to signal a waiter, failed, and went to the bar instead. I sipped my sherry, turning to glance from the window once more, only to look back and find Morris staring directly at me.

‘You are beautiful. You look like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and all the time so dirty underneath. What is it Alice calls you, ‘‘the Moppet''? It suits you.'

‘Don't call her Alice, Morris. She hates it. Anyway, I. . .'

‘I'll call her what I please,' he interrupted. ‘Silly cow, for instance. What's her problem, that she won't come to a party? It's not like she's never been spanked before.'

‘She has not!'

‘She's been over Mel's knee.'

‘Your wife?'

‘Sure.'

He had to be lying. AJ never went down for anyone.

‘Not that she got much say in the matter,' Morris continued, ‘but she came, and that says it all really, doesn't it?'

‘She came?' I asked quietly, still not sure I believed him, even though I could imagine Melody Rathwell doing it. She was as tall as AJ and solid muscle.

‘Sure,' he said casually. ‘OK, so Mel frigged her off, but she came, so you know she likes it deep down, whatever she says.'

‘No . . . I'm sure that's wrong,' I answered, although I couldn't immediately convince myself that it didn't make sense, ‘and anyway, even if Melody did spank her, that doesn't mean she wants to have it done by some dirty old man at one of your parties, does it? Never mind what else goes on.'

I expected him to argue the point, but he just grinned.

‘You'd love that, wouldn't you? A nice slow bum-roasting followed by a portion of cock right up that darling little tushie.'

I didn't know if he meant me or AJ, but I'd gone bright red on the instant, completely taken aback by his sudden change of tack, and how he seemed to have plumbed into my most secret fantasies.

‘Are you still a virgin?' he asked. ‘Nah, that would be asking too much. Some greedy little git will have had you.'

My cheeks were ablaze, but I had to answer him.

‘Yes I am, actually, and could you not talk so loudly, please? People will hear!'

‘You are?' he said, no less loudly than before. ‘Don't fancy earning a few grand do you? There's almost no limit to what I could charge people to see
a sweet little thing like you get it for the first time, and as for what I could get from the guy who popped your cherry, we're talking as much as old Montague will be paying you all year.'

I couldn't believe he'd said the words that I'd heard. My mouth was opening and closing in outrage, while I struggled for something to say that would even make the beginning of a suitable response. He appeared not to notice, not even bothering to lift his eyes from the menu, and I finally subsided, defeated by his sheer nerve. Besides, Clive was coming towards us.

‘Mr Carew is coming back,' I pointed out, before Morris could make some awful suggestion in Clive's hearing, maybe that I be auctioned for a public buggering or put on a sex show with a troop of chimpanzees.

Morris merely gave a dry chuckle and accepted the glass of sherry as it was passed to him. His appalling suggestion was buzzing in my head and I knew my face was red, but Clive either didn't notice or was too polite to say anything. They began to talk business, but instead of listening I sat brooding over male arrogance.

The meal eventually arrived, and was every bit as delicious as Clive had said it would be. So was the wine, and by the time it arrived they were deep in conversation about whether it would be possible to challenge a government directive on what constituted contaminated land. Morris, it seemed, wanted to build on some. I half listened and sipped my wine, mindful of what had happened to me last time I'd got drunk over lunch but still feeling ever so slightly tipsy by the time we'd finished.

I'd been bracing myself to tell Morris what I thought of him, and the wine had certainly helped.
Clive finally waddled off towards the Gents, but Morris spoke up before I could.

‘The next party is the Saturday after the one coming. I hope I can rely on you?'

‘No!' I answered him, seizing my chance. ‘I think you've got the wrong idea about me, Morris, whatever Jade may have said. In fact . . .'

‘Have I?' he broke in. ‘I hear you entertained fourteen of London's toughest dykes last week.'

‘How did you know that?' I demanded, colouring up one more time.

He simply tapped the side of his nose. I sat back, furious and embarrassed, not knowing what to say. Morris chuckled.

‘You look even prettier when you blush, Pippa, and you'll look prettier still when you're blushing at both ends.'

‘That's not something you're ever likely to see,' I told him.

He merely gave another dry chuckle, but continued watching me. I stayed silent, my arms folded across my chest, my face set in stony distaste, or what I thought was stony distaste. He was grinning.

‘You look prettier still when you're sulking,' he said. ‘Do you pout like that during spanking?'

‘Will you shut up?' I snapped. ‘You're not going to see me spanked, you dirty old goat, so you needn't bother to think you'll ever find out.'

‘No?' he queried. ‘I beg to differ. I know a spankee girl when I meet one, and the young ones usually take a while to accept their true nature, but you'll get there, and believe me, it makes a lot more sense to enjoy it while you're fresh and young. Then you'll be the centre of attention, you see, which of course is what all women crave, but if you put if off until you're older, there's bound to be some other cute
little poppet around, and the boys will be chasing after her instead. You'd hate that, wouldn't you?'

‘You don't know anything about me,' I answered.

This time he laughed out loud and I found myself blushing again, just in time for Clive to see as he came back to the table. Morris did know about me, an uncomfortable amount. Not only did he seem able to read my darkest, most private thoughts, but he'd found out about what had happened at the Pumps, which was supposed to be strictly between those who'd been there. Somebody had told him, obviously, but I couldn't image who, and if AJ caught her she was going to get the same treatment herself, butch or not.

Clive had ordered brandies, which turned up in huge, balloon-shaped glasses. I sipped mine cautiously while Morris went into a lengthy tirade about not being allowed to smoke a cigar in the restaurant. It was already gone one o'clock, and they didn't seem to be in any hurry, so I let them talk, far preferring to sit back in comfort with a drink than be chased around the archive stacks by old Mr Prufrock.

Half-an-hour later I was beginning to feel drowsy. It was hot outside, and in, while I'd definitely drunk more than I should have done. Returning to Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague was best avoided, although a long, rude punishment session from Maggie would have been rather nice. I began to imagine how she'd deal with me, spanking me in nappy-changing position as she had before, only this time putting me in one afterwards to add to my humiliation as I went down on my knees for her. It was a good fantasy, and just developing nicely when I was brought out of it with a jerk by Morris slapping both hands down on the table.

‘Work to do, people to see,' he said, suddenly brisk. ‘Thank you very much for lunch, Clive, and I'll
expect your report on the Creekmouth coal-gas site sometime next week. A pleasure to see you, Pippa, my dear, and don't forget about Saturday.'

As I was next to the window I was unable to avoid him as he bent close to kiss me goodbye, and with Clive present could only accept it with as much good grace as I could manage. He winked at me as he left, and I just had time to stick my tongue out at him, but was left feeling silly and juvenile for making the gesture. It only made him laugh anyway, and I was seething with anger and embarrassment as he walked away across the plaza.

‘Just let me deal with the bill, and it's back to work, I suppose,' Clive said.

I really didn't want to go.

‘Could I have a coffee, please?' I asked. ‘I'm not used to drinking so much, especially at lunch time.'

‘Um . . . yes, certainly. In fact I'll join you,' he offered, and reached up to signal the waiter's attention.

This time he got it, if only because our table was one of only three still occupied. It was well gone two, so I had three hours to kill. When our coffees arrived I asked Clive to explain the laws on building on brown field sites, which he did, in detail. As he talked his shyness vanished, and I realised that underneath his awkward manner and faintly comic appearance he was not only intelligent and resourceful but not all that scrupulous. Moral issues, such as building a housing estate on land contaminated with coal-tar by-products, didn't trouble him, so long as he could operate within the letter of the law. Long before he'd finished his explanation I'd realised than if I did want to go ahead with my little money-making scheme, he was the ideal partner. I was drunk enough to put the proposition to him as well.

‘Clive,' I said, when he'd finally wound down. ‘I have an offer to put to you, a proposition, a rather private one.'

‘Um . . . a private proposition?' he asked, his shyness flooding back in an instant.

‘Yes,' I told him. ‘I know about the book Mark James is making, you see, the one about who'll be the first to get me into bed. I overheard you talking in the Blockhouse.'

He obviously thought I was trying to blackmail him, and his features had begun to twitch between cunning and concern, so I continued hastily.

‘I don't mind, Clive . . . well, I do, but that's not the point. The point is, that I know, but nobody else knows I know, so I thought, maybe, we could strike a bargain?'

Now he understood, although not perfectly, as his face had gone bright red and he was stammering unintelligibly as he struggled to reply.

‘I don't mean with you,' I told him, and his face fell so badly I found myself reassuring him, ‘not because I don't like you, Clive, but because you're only on 50–1 and there are better odds available.'