The Greater Fool Page 9

  But this afternoon there's some misguided liberal canvassing views on the potential admission of women to the club. A director of some art gallery in Albermarle Street or Dover Street: Guardian-reading, gluten-intolerant, and vegan, sporting a full beard flecked with ginger and grey, he's a ludicrous figure. Ludicrous, well-meaning, and potentially dangerous. He corners me to gather my views, just when I want to be left alone.

  I say, “It's a lovely idea, but against the whole raison d'être of the Club. Most of the members come here to get away from women. Admit them and you'll lose half the membership overnight, and with it, the viability of the club.”

  “But surely—”

  I raise my hand and he stops, mid-flow. I say, “Sorry, but I’ve said all I have to say. A suggestion for you: if you don’t like the club’s rules, then join another club. Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  He reluctantly sidles away; I pull out my phone and get to work.

  Back at the flat, Mutch has gone. In the spare bedroom, Chiquita/Patricia, towel wrapped around her, sits on the edge of the bed with her hands over her head and her body shaking. I cough, and she jerks her head up. She’s flushed, mascara smeared down her face, tears wet across her cheeks.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your friend’s a malparido. Nasty bastard. He hurt me.” She holds out an arm to show ruby-red abrasions. “And he was too violent, hurt me inside.”

  “I’m really sorry, I didn’t know he was like that. He’s not my friend, just someone I know.”

  She starts to sob. “I never want this, I only want to study, be a scientist, improve people’s lives. Not be attacked by a, a violador. Let me go, I don’t want to be here.”

  I retrieve her nurse’s uniform from the floor and hand it to her, but that only makes her sob harder. “Please go,” she says, so I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Minutes later, she’s pulling on her beige raincoat and belting it up. “Reynard, this is a really bad thing. I know you did not do it, but it is your fault. He is your friend, you paid for this to happen. Sorry, but I never want to see you again.”

  “I understand and I am sorry, I did not mean for this to happen.”

  “You must think about the, the implications of what you do. You know, stimulus then response, cause and effect. You have responsibility, but you behave very badly.”

  She slowly opens the front door, turns to look at me once more, then leaves, head bowed.

  21

  A new day, feeling better than yesterday, and back in the office. Roger calls in sick but tells me that Lucija has everything under control. Fussing around me and checking that I’m well enough to be in the office, she wears a dreary charcoal pinstripe suit and workaday blouse. The intern, however, wears a tight blue dress, sheer tights, and heels, a vision to lift the spirits. I call her into my office.

  “Jenny, how're you enjoying your time here?”

  “Erm, I'm loving it. Everyone's so nice, and I'm learning loads.”

  “Are you still at school?”

  “Erm, yes. Final year at UCL.”

  “My alma mater. Studying economics, presumably?”

  “Yes, partly. BSc in Statistics, Economics, and Finance.”

  “And how did we find you?”

  “Through the internal programme at UCL. There were some tests and an interview and stuff.”

  “Well, we're delighted to have you. What are your plans after graduating?”

  She crosses her legs, always a sign loaded with significance. She looks straight at me, and it's then that I feel that connection, that primal thunderbolt. I know she feels it too as I watch her face flush, the most subtle infusion of pink across her freckled cheeks. She mutters, “I'm not sure yet. It depends on what opportunities come up.”

  We sit there in silence as we imagine ourselves in bed together, each hungrily devouring the other in a hot night of boundless passion. Finally, the spell is broken as she says, quietly, “Was there anything else, sir?”

  “Call me Reynard. And no, nothing else for the time being, thank you, Jenny.”

  She stands and smooths down her dress. As she edges out of my office, she says, apologetically, “Erm, and it's Jane, not Jenny.”

  “Of course it is.” I watch her peaches sashay back towards her desk, and I lose myself once more in delightful reverie.

  Jenny brings me three more espressos, which, allied with a cheeky line of coke and the pregabalin/tramadol/cocodamol triumvirate, bring me to a comfortable equilibrium.

  I message D.I. Mutch: How was yesterday afternoon? He replies with Very satisfying, thanks. Meet me in Conduit Street Starbucks at 2pm.

  Lucija pokes her head around the door. “Boss, I’ve just offloaded £20m of our stake in the Ledbury retail park. Things are looking up.”

  Indeed they are. Remarkable how Roger’s absence has precipitated an improvement in our fortunes. Although ostensibly dependable, a safe pair of hands, perhaps he’s holding us back, unnecessary ballast when more than anything we need to be fleet of foot.

  Cradling a most excellent espresso, it does feel to me as if things are heading in the right direction: Gyges is finding its feet again; D.I. Mutch can clearly be bought off; The Reverend will surely come to his senses soon and St Saviour's will be mine; I see a rosy future for me and Jenny.

  Mutch and I arrive at Starbucks at the same time. We grab our coffees — double espresso for me, cappuccino for Mutch — and find a quiet table by the toilets.

  Mutch says, “Right, sir, down to business.”

  “You enjoyed yourself yesterday, by the sounds of it?”

  “Yes thank you, although she wasn’t quite as compliant as expected, had to sort her out a bit.” He smiles and raises his eyebrows.

  “Well, glad you enjoyed yourself. So we’re quits now then, I take it? No need for us to discuss the Cryx misunderstanding any further?”

  Mutch guffaws. “What? We’re far from quits, sir. As far as I’m concerned, Jacinta and I had a mutually enjoyable and satisfying encounter. We just happened to meet in your flat.”

  His chutzpah is a little surprising, but not too concerning; I’ve come across far more impressive negotiators. “Mutch, you knowingly consorted with an escort girl while on duty — I suspect your superiors would take a very dim of view of that.”

  Mutch curls his upper lip. “Very inadvisable, sir. Do you know the sentence for a million-pound bribe?”

  “I’d take you down with me.”

  “Bollocks. I’d deny it, you’d also get charged with attempting to bribe a police officer and perverting the course of justice.”

  My hand instinctively reaches for the jagged pain on my right side. As it starts to subside I say, “So what do you want?”

  “That’s more like it. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought cash is king. One hundred K, used notes. I’m a considerate man, I know the weekend’s coming up, so close of play Monday.”

  “But—”

  “Save it, Reynard, I know you can easily get your hands on it. See you here Monday at five, agreed?”

  “And in return you will bury the Cryx allegations, make sure they can’t go any further? Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  We shake on it, Mutch’s clammy hand weak and unconvincing — the handshake of a man who cannot be trusted. His demand for a hundred K in used notes also shows a lack of imagination and ambition. He knows he has me over a barrel, but still all he’s asked for is a sum that takes me no more than a few hours to earn. It’s a minor inconvenience, no more than that. A quick call to Giles, my private banker, and the logistics are sorted. Another tick in the box; things move inexorably towards their conclusion.

  Jenny gazes at me with untrammelled lust as I stride back through the open-plan area towards my office. Social convention is so tedious sometimes; strip away stultifying etiquette, and I'd feast on her moist little cleft right there on the desk, right now. Take her to places she has only ever dreamed a
bout. I'm sure Lucija would also join in; the back-office chaps would learn a lot.

  But discovering you’re being blackmailed (however small-minded it is) is not conducive to a virtuosic display of sexual gymnastics, so I sit there behind my desk with merely a semi-on. I call Jenny over and tell her to close the door. She sits and undemonstratively crosses her legs, but still the effect is utterly erotic; she’s gamine but ripe and feminine, and ready to be harvested. We sit there in hungry but silent mutual appreciation, until she says, “Did you want something, Reynard?”

  “God, yes,” I groan.

  She colours. “Pardon?”

  “Excuse me. Er, how much longer are you with us, Jenny?”

  “It's Jane. I'm here for one more week.”

  “Is that all? What a shame. Do you want to stay on for longer?”

  “I think it's just a four-week scheme run by Uni? This business leaders' scheme, you know?”

  “Of course. Well, I've heard great things about you. Do you have anything lined up for after Uni?”

  “Erm, nothing firm yet. I'm still exploring options.” She swallows then crosses her legs. Lights have turned to green: time to move in for the kill.

  “What are you doing tonight? I'll take you out for a decent dinner. Do you like the food in Origami?”

  The flush across her freckled cheeks darkens to a vivid red. “Oh, thank you very much for asking me, but I have to have dinner with my boyfriend and his mum tonight.”

  “Tomorrow night then. Does your boyfriend take you to Origami often?”

  “Erm, no, I've never been.”

  “Great. I'll get you picked up at seven. You might want to dress up.” I reach into my wallet, pull out ten fifties, and hand them to her. “Get something glamorous, okay?” Her small hot hand remains in mine: the willing captive.

  “Reynard, I'm not sure about this.”

  “Yes, you are. I promise.” I open the door for her, and she brushes past; sexually charged sparks fly, and she immediately heads off to the toilets, her head bowed in excitement.

  As I start to trudge through my unread email, Lucija, unprompted, brings me a clean suit and shirt and urges me to brush my teeth. As she moves closer, her fragrance is exquisite. I swear that her nipples are erect, although her jacket keeps them under wraps. I resist the urge, just, to cup her bounteous breasts in my hands. She brings me a triple espresso. I tell her to email me the intern's contact details and send her away with my thanks and an admiring glance at her peaches, which are still well-toned, although I prefer Jenny's.

  22

  A Saturday morning spent mostly in disequilibrium: something's out of kilter, but I'm not sure what. It’s complicated trying to balance the pregabalin, cocodamol, tramadol, caffeine, and alcohol (and Leo's finest). In time, I'll taper off the pregabalin, but now's not the right time.

  I message the Reverend Anthony again; it's time to persuade him to back my bid. He messages back: Are you feeling better now, Reynard? to which I reply in the affirmative, then add: Would you like to talk? He instantly replies, Yes. Can you come to the church at 1pm tomorrow? Indeed I can. All systems go...

  I look on netaporter.com to see what outfit Jenny might buy for tonight. There's a Diane von Furstenberg panelled lace dress that would accentuate her legs well, so I message her to suggest she get something like that. There's also a great Agent Provocateur stretch-lace triangle bra, which would look great against her creamy, flawless skin, but I don't message her about that; a lady should have the chance to choose her own underwear, however inexperienced she is. There are also some nice Stuart Weitzman leather over-the-knee boots, which I'll get for her once we're a couple. Maybe even the Louboutin Top Croche 120 suede over-the-knees when she's really earned them.

  Time's moving too slowly. My cock's inert, resting like the big beast it is, slumbering in advance of being uncoiled and put into action tonight.

  Mid-afternoon, an intense naked Berserker workout in front of the mirror. Ripped, powerful, irresistible. I shower and dress for dinner: textured Armani blazer, white shirt, Zegna slip-ons. A text tells me that the car has picked Jenny, sorry, Jane, up from her place in Arnos Grove (wherever that is), so I pull on the Givenchy overcoat, secret a couple of wraps and three condoms in my jacket pocket, and stroll off towards Origami feeling like a child on Christmas Eve.

  The maître d' shows me to my usual table, and a V&T is brought almost immediately by a new waitress, a tiny Asian hotpot with a page-boy haircut. The maître d' lingers for a minute as we exchange banal pleasantries, which are immediately forgotten.

  Ten minutes later, as I take the first sip of my second V&T, the maître d' ushers Jane to my table. She wears a surprisingly demure full-length dress with a high neckline and ruched short sleeves. On her feet are Converse boots.

  “You look beautiful, Jenny, I mean, Jane,” I say, standing to kiss her on the cheek. “A really individual look. I love it. Where did you go shopping?”

  She sits opposite me, placing her unbranded clutch bag on the table, and exhales noisily. “In the end I didn't go shopping, it just didn't seem right.” She unzips her bag, pulls out the cash I gave her, and clumsily hands it to me. “Here, thanks a lot and everything, but you should spend your money on something else.”

  “Oh, what a shame! But it's your decision, of course. You look stunning as it is.” I take the money, brushing her hand.

  She smiles and looks away. The pocket-rocket waitress appears, and Jane asks for half a lager.

  As it's her first visit, I insist on ordering for us both, so that she has the full Origami experience: the Kaiseki banquet.

  I say to Jane, “This Kaiseki is what you'd serve to a head of state — it basically derives from imperial state cuisine.”

  “Sounds very grand to me. A lot posher than I'm used to.”

  “Yes, that's the point. Here's some random trivia: do you know what the literal translation of Kaiseki is?”

  “No idea. Banquet? Posh meal?” she smiles, so I smile too.

  “Good try, but literally Kaiseki means 'bosom pocket stone.'” I smile again: the full works this time.

  Her eyes twinkle as she laughs, then she shyly covers her mouth with her hand. “How random!”

  We move on through the first three courses — Sakizuke, Hassun, Mukōzuke — each of them delicate and exquisite, clearly the best food Jane's ever tasted. The Japanese wine, Koshu, flows, as does the conversation. Things move inexorably towards their delicious climax.

  Softly, I ask her, “Why do you think I invited you to dinner?”

  “I'm not sure. Maybe you do that with all the interns?”

  “Au contraire. Jane, there's something about you that I immediately liked. There's this connection, I know you feel it too. I just know we're on the same wavelength. Oh, and of course your sublime beauty.” I reach out to touch her cheek, but she sits back in her chair, colours a little, then takes a quick sip of her wine.

  “My boyfriend's really pissed off about me coming out tonight.”

  “Why? A bit needy and insecure, is he?”

  “No, not at all! Jake's really straightforward, straight down the middle, but he's also a bit protective. A bit jealous, sometimes.”

  “Well, I didn't invite you here to talk about your boyfriend. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “OK. Are you married, Reynard?”

  “No. I was, but, you know...” I look away wistfully. “It didn't work out, unfortunately.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” she says with an exquisitely wrinkled brow.

  “Thanks. It's water under the bridge now. You live and learn. The secret's not to become cynical. Sometimes things are just not meant to happen.”

  “Oh yes, Reynard, I agree. Things happen for a reason, don't they?”

  “Jane, you're so right.” Connection.

  “It's like when me and Jake got together, all of our friends knew before we did that we were meant for each other. We lived on the same road for years and both been accepted into UCL
without the other one even knowing. It was fate that we'd end up in London together, I reckon.”

  Uninteresting, enervating, and not what we should be talking about. “Is he wealthy?”

  “No, he's a student like me. You know, just normal, from a humble background. Not like you at all. No offence intended.”

  “None taken. Listen, I'm from a humble background, but I fought my way up, got to the top of the pile, made hundreds of millions. You know, that sort of money opens up a lot of opportunities.”

  “Yes, I'm sure it does.” She smiles enigmatically; delicious fantasies, perhaps. The Koshu's clearly working, so I order another bottle as the next course arrives.

  “I really shouldn't, Reynard. I'm feeling a bit tipsy already. How come you're still stone-cold sober?”

  “I'm really not. We're here to enjoy ourselves, remember?”

  “OK. But I really can't stay out too late. I promised Jake I'd be back by eleven.”

  “Or you turn into a pumpkin?”

  She puts down her glass clumsily; some Koshu spills onto the table. As she goes to clear it up, a waitress appears from nowhere and efficiently and silently mops it up.

  I say, “No pressure. Let's just enjoy the incredible food, okay? We're very privileged to be able to try this, you know? It's a really exclusive, elite experience. I doubt many of your Uni classmates will ever get this chance.”

  “Fair point,” she says, and she takes her top lip between her teeth. I know cognitive dissonance when I see it; she's clearly battling with her conscience. Her poor student boyfriend left at home while she dines with an objectively superior man, and then later... She is, I'm sure of it, imagining opening her legs to take me, delighted as she finds I'm far bigger than she could have even hoped.

  I excuse myself and head to the bathroom, leaving her alone to convince herself fully of what I know she really wants to do with me, to me, tonight. After a long week, my energy levels are flagging a little, but one of Leo's wraps soon restores me to top notch.