Office Perks (11 page)

She put the phone down and looked up at me.

‘You can go up. First floor, right of centre.'

‘Thank you.'

She didn't bother to respond, and I made for the stairs, a great double zigzag fully in keeping with the imposing architecture of the place. At the top was a broad corridor, completely empty with doors opening from it at wide intervals. The central ones were tall, veneered wood, and opened on to what looked like a committee room, with a long central table around which were ranged a good two dozen elegant, high-backed chairs. The next to the right, presumably the one she meant, was firmly closed. I knocked. A voice answered, male, controlled and a little stern. I opened the door to find a man looking at me from behind a huge keyhole-shaped desk of polished wood. He was youngish, maybe thirty or thirty-five,
clean-cut, smartly dressed, very much at ease with himself, and not particularly pleased to see me.

‘You've been sent in place of Miss Cherwell?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is there a reason for this? I had specifically asked for Miss Cherwell.'

‘I'm sorry. I'm sure I can cope with anything she can, but if you'd rather I went . . .'

‘You've spoken to her, then?'

His voice had softened considerably. I decided to lie, or at least to bend the truth.

‘Briefly, yes, on Saturday night.'

‘She's not ill then?'

She'd been in the best of health, her arms around two men, but I was sure the detail was irrelevant.

‘Er . . . no, not at all.'

‘Hmm. I wonder what the matter is.'

I had no idea, but I could see what had happened. He'd wanted Sophie, and for whatever reason, she'd convinced Mrs Maryam Smith that I should go instead. Possibly she really was ill, and I'd been chosen at random, but unlikely, when I'd been in the middle of another assignment. Mr Drake was looking at me thoughtfully. I smiled sweetly, meanwhile silently cursing Sophie for not telling me what was going on. His next remark provided a hint.

‘You'll be joining me at Interconference, then, in her place?'

I hesitated, unsure what to say. It looked as if Sophie had dropped me into one of ‘those' assignments, where the girl's not wanted for her work skills, but for her looks, maybe more. I'd heard the stories, and seen the results. Talia was with Lucas Sherringham, living the life of Riley, for however long. Bobbie had done it, and
Sophie, evidently. Mr Drake was good-looking, young enough, hopefully man enough . . .

‘Yes, of course.'

I'd spoken before I'd really thought about it, eager to break the uncomfortable atmosphere. He smiled. I thought of Niall, but I was one hundred percent determined that he would not possess me, nor any other man. If I wanted to take Mr Drake up on his offer, I would, and it would be my choice, nobody else's, whatever that offer might be. He gestured to a seat, now relaxed.

‘It had better be Richard, then, and you are?'

‘Lucy.'

‘Lucy, cute name. So you're a friend of Sophie's . . . well, you must be.'

‘Sure, yes, we er . . . go around together all the time.'

‘Great. She's explained, then?'

‘Er, no, not really. Just that . . . that she couldn't come for the Interwhatsit thing, and could I go instead.'

I smiled, praying that whatever reason Sophie had for dropping me in it, it wasn't that Mr Drake was into something weird, like the stuff they have on late night cable TV. If he expected to dress up as a woman, or be led around on a dog lead, or have me put him in nappies, I was going to run, and when I caught up with Sophie I wouldn't be responsible for my actions. Then again, maybe he just wanted to show me off in front of his colleagues, with no strings attached. Fat chance, but I could always quit.

‘You're rather early, of course. Do you play golf?'

‘Golf? No.'

‘You should. There's no more useful accomplishment if you want to get on in business, except maybe holding your drink.'

‘That I can do.'

He laughed, sure and easy, and I felt myself relax just that little bit more.

‘I'll teach you, come on.'

‘What, now?'

‘Certainly.'

I made a vague gesture, taking in the office and the factory in general.

‘Don't you have any work to do? Or for me to do, maybe?'

‘Work? Not today, no. My position's largely a sinecure, but I have the name.'

I had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded faithfully. If he'd suggested bonking me across the desk without preliminaries I probably would have freaked, or maybe not. If he wanted to teach me golf, then fair enough. I was still getting paid, and it was a whole lot better than Tilbury. He'd gone to a cupboard, and produced a huge red and black leather bag bristling with clubs of various shapes and sizes. For one awful moment I thought he was going to expect me to carry the wretched thing, but he heaved it onto his shoulder, really quite casually. As he came towards me he made a polite gesture to the door. I went out first and he followed, locking it behind him.

We went out the way I'd come in, down the staircase and across the hall. The receptionist gave him an obsequious ‘Good morning, Mr Drake', and me a knowing and haughty glance. As I was a step behind him I stuck my tongue out at the snotty little bitch.

Outside he led me past the gleaming ranks of motorbikes, and I finally twigged. Each and every one had a bold, cursive ‘Drake' on the petrol tank. I'd seen it before, but simply hadn't made the connection. He owned the place, or at least had a senior place, and one that meant
he could spend his day playing golf or anything else if he wanted to.

The few people we saw as we made our way to the car park were as polite as the receptionist. Most of them gave me no more than a glance, and I didn't care if they knew, or what they thought. I was only going to play golf, anyway. His car was a top of the range, brand new Merc, and as I settled into the black leather upholstered front seat I was thinking that I could get used to the life. If I was a good girl, I could file and type and stack and sort, and make coffee, and get shouted at for making some trivial mistake. If I was a bad girl, the possibilities were endless.

We drove for maybe twenty minutes, out into the open country, to a mansion, now a golf club. It was hard not to stare – at the ranks of expensive cars, and the ranks of expensive men and women. They might have been playing golf, but they were showing off too, in obviously expensive and presumably designer kit that made me feel very tatty indeed in my little blue office suit. As I stood nervously in the reception area I was already wondering what a man like Richard Drake would want with me when he could presumably pick and choose from among so many elegant, beautiful women. More than one I recognised from TV, and even the waitresses looked smarter and more with it than I did. I had to ask, and spoke as soon as Richard had finished signing me in and we wouldn't be overheard.

‘Why me?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Why me, here?

‘The agency sent you.'

‘Yes, but you'd asked for Sophie, and she and I are not so very different. I'm sure some of these women would love to play with you, and I don't just mean golf.'

He laughed.

‘They're plastic, false. Everything about them is contrived. You, you're as fresh as a daisy, free and uncomplicated.'

I couldn't help but smile, although I wasn't one hundred percent happy with the implications of what he'd said. Still, I could be free, certainly, and perhaps uncomplicated, if that was what he wanted.

He found me a pair of shoes and we went outside, to a long, flat meadow behind the house, presumably once the main lawn but now a practice range. They were taking no chances, with a twenty foot high net behind us and trees and bushes to either side, creating a long aisle of grass. A row of flags stood at the far end. Richard tossed a couple of balls down on the turf and selected a club.

‘The aim, basically, is to get the ball in the hole,' he began.

‘I know that. Let me have a go,' I said impatiently.

‘It's not quite that simple,' said Drake, with a smile, ‘but OK.'

How hard could it be? I'd seen people playing golf on TV, and it had to at least be a lot easier than football or tennis, where you've got somebody trying to stop you doing what you want. I took the club from Richard and waited while he balanced a ball on a little plastic peg. There were other people around, and I imitated the way they were standing, legs braced apart, body slightly bent. The position left my bum stuck out and I gave Richard a little wiggle, just to tease him, lifted the club, and brought it down on the ball as hard as I possibly could.

I missed, completely, but let go of the club, sending it flying and leaving Richard trying not to laugh.

‘Here, let me show you,' he said with smooth authority.

I nodded. He retrieved the club, and this time came to stand behind me, his arms around me and his hands on mine as he guided me. My bum was now stuck right in his crotch, and I could feel the bulge of his cock, firm and urgent under his suit trousers. Clearly there was more to golf practice than met the eye. I gave the same little wiggle I had before, but now against his cock, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. He kept his cool, though, helping me lift the club and bring it down on the ball, nice and smooth, to send it maybe thirty feet, but at least in a straight line.

‘Good, well done. You see, it's all in the stance.'

‘Sure, but I'd take forever to get to the hole like that.'

‘The green. First the green, then the hole. These things have to be done in stages.'

I raised an eyebrow, wondering how many stages he was planning. Not too many, to judge by the state of his crotch, which was making a large bulge in the front of his trousers. I made a point of bending over as I adjusted the little peg and balanced the second ball on it, sure his eyes would be firmly fixed to the round swell of my bum. He was going to come dose again, making me imagine how it could be, me bent, skirt up, knickers down, and his cock slid right up. But not right outside the windows of a Super golf dub, presumably. I'm sure they have rules about that sort of thing.

‘Let me try again,' I said, aiming to look as cute as possible.

‘OK.'

He stood back, watching me with his mouth set in a slight smile, just a little smug. I got into position, determined to show him I wasn't completely useless, positioned the dub against the ball, wiggled to get my pose just right, lifted the dub, and brought it down, to send the ball belting off, high in air and too fast to follow.

It went almost at right angles to where we were standing and straight in among the tress. It hit, bounced back in a high arch which I followed with my mouth wide open, up, up, over the net and down, clean through the restaurant window. I closed my eyes, waiting for the tirade.

It never came, just laughter, and with that I was sold. I'd been flirting, just enjoying the possibility that I might go to bed with him. If he'd been pushy, demanding, treated me as if he'd bought me, it would have been right out. He was just the opposite, a bit condescending, maybe, but mucking about and up for fun, even when I managed to smash up his golf club. He was still trying not to laugh as he moved off towards the club house.

‘I'd better square that with somebody on the committee. Get in a bit more practice, but gently!'

He disappeared around the corner of the house and I was left to play with his clubs, trying my best to reach the little flags at the far end and failing miserably. Whoever he'd gone to speak to must have been giving him a hard time about the window because he took ages. I was bored by the time he got back, and half expecting him to be pissed off after sorting things out, but he'd kept his humour, settling for a pat of my bottom as he came up behind me.

‘Enough for now, I think. How about a spot of lunch?'

‘Sure. What's actually happening, by the way? Sorry to have to ask, but Sophie didn't tell me all that much.'

‘We're going to Interconference.'

‘Well yes, but how long for, where is it, what is it, what should . . .'

I'd been going to ask what I should do, but that seemed pretty obvious and I didn't want to seem totally naïve. He looked slightly puzzled.

‘Interconference, this afternoon, in Ealing.'

‘Ealing? Oh, right . . . and just this afternoon?'

‘Of course. Weren't you given any details at all?'

‘No, not really.'

I held back a bit because I was blushing and I didn't want him to see. There I was, imagining myself being whisked away to some remote part of country and carefully seduced, while all the time he just wanted me to hang on his arm for the afternoon. I'd been bringing myself around to accept sex, even to want it, and it wasn't going to happen. He'd never intended that it should. I could see the funny side, but I was still feeling embarrassed as he guided me to the dining-room.

It was beautiful, if somewhat spoiled by the men cleaning up broken glass in one corner of a big, high-ceilinged room that was wood-panelled and hung with paintings. Every table was set with a glittering array of crystal, crockery and cutlery, also flowers and white linen napkins in silver rings. I immediately felt out of place, sure everyone was looking at me, and that everyone knew I was the one who'd smashed the window.

Richard took no notice, allowing the waiters to help us into our seats and frowning over the menu and a wine list a good two inches thick. I was more than a little distracted, and still embarrassed but amused at myself, unable to get the thought of how the bump of his cock had felt pressed between the cheeks of my bottom, and what I'd expected in consequence. He paid no attention, asking what I wanted to eat before making a careful selection from the wine list. Champagne, then something red.

The champagne had soon arrived, presented in a bucket of ice with a napkin laid carefully around the neck. The waiter made a great show of opening the bottle and pouring a tiny amount into Richard's glass for his approval. It was given and our glasses were filled. I
downed mine, grateful for the refreshment and in need of a shot of alcohol. Richard took a single, delicate sip, then refilled my glass.