The Girl at the Bus-Stop (20 page)

After eating up the display with their eyes, the guests were slightly hesitant before tucking in to the unusual dessert. Strong was the first to start, and immediately put his mouth over one of the woman’s breasts to nibble the chocolate, slurping up one of the strawberries.

This gave the green light for the others to join in, and Becky stepped back from the table as the dinner guests began to devour the sweet food in a frenzy. She moved away from the human trough and walked to the far end of the room and poured herself another glass of wine. Nikki Blandford, her mouth full of pancake and whipped cream, stared at her, eyes blazing with anger. Becky raised her middle finger at her in an unkind gesture, before leaving the room.

Twenty minutes later, Nikki found her outside the reception area, sitting on the entrance steps smoking a cigarette. She grabbed Becky roughly by the arm.

‘Get back into that room, Ms Caine,’ she snapped, ‘you’re letting everybody down.’

‘Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking arm,’ seethed Becky as she tossed the cigarette away.

In the dining room the fleshy feast had been devoured and the table cleared. The guests were now being entertained by two naked women, one black and the other white, scissoring each other in the centre of the table. Every so often a guest would reach forward for a quick feel of breast or a grope of buttock, as the two women thrust hard into each other, gyrating in fake ecstasy.

After the two women had exhausted themselves, the guests moved over to a group of armchairs around a roaring log fire as waitresses served coffee and liqueurs. Abel Strong was absent. Becky saw him disappearing through the doors, his vast arms around the waists of the two naked women. His hands squeezed their buttocks simultaneously as the doors were closed behind them.

The conversation around the fire soon turned to business, and all eyes turned to Becky. Max Schiller praised her for the rocketing sales of
Disciplinary Attraction
, before stressing to her the need to get the sequel finished.

‘I’m almost finished,’ Becky assured him, ‘in fact if you want it done quicker I’m going to have to knock these parties and dinners on the head.’

‘But it’s essential that you attend, Ms Caine,’ replied Nikki through gritted teeth, ‘it’s expected of our bright new talent.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Schiller, ‘it’s got to be more important to get the next book out. If she’s under pressure to finish it, give the poor girl a break, Nikki.’

‘I would agree with that,’ said Teresa Wilton, ‘from my limited experience of publishing you can’t afford to rest on your laurels. You could dry up at any moment.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Nikki, sneering at Becky, ‘I think even if she’s out every night of the week, the book will still getting written.’

Becky was getting fed up of Nikki’s snide remarks and she stood up.

‘Tell me Nikki, what exactly is your position at Fantasy-Lit?’

‘I’m Senior Marketing Assistant, why?’

‘What would happen if an author generating hundreds of thousands of pounds in revenue, doesn’t want the Senior Marketing Assistant working on their book anymore?’

Nikki’s face held a puzzled expression for a few moments, and the other guests looked at her intently waiting for a reply.

‘It’s never happened to me, so I don’t really know,’ she said with a nervous smile, ‘but I would imagine that the Marketing Director would assign someone else to that particular author.’

‘So what about the previous Senior Marketing Assistant, ‘said Becky with a cool smile, ‘what happens to him, or her?’

‘I tell you what happens to her, Ms Caine,’ said Max Schiller, ‘if she’s upset the goose that lays the golden egg, she gets her sorry ass kicked down the stairs and out of the building.’

‘Not necessarily, Max,’ said Nikki, ‘she may get reassigned to another author.’

‘I don’t think so, Nikki,’ replied Max, shaking his big head, ‘I’ve found that in my twenty five years in the business, authors are sensitive creatures. They don’t want other writer’s cast-offs, it makes them feel under-valued. When you find good authors you want to keep them, but marketing assistants are a dime a dozen, even good ones.’

Nikki’s cheeks flushed and she looked down at the floor for a few moments. The uncomfortable silence which followed seemed to last an age, until Becky came to the rescue.

‘Well let’s hope for Nikki’s sake I don’t fall out with her then,’ Becky said, ‘so if you want this sequel finished on time, then you’d better let me get on with it. Otherwise, I don’t think Mr Newman or Mr Jarrold will be too happy. Don’t you agree, Nikki?’

Nikki looked up at her, her eyes pitiful and her practiced smile drooping into a frown.

The door opened and a young woman entered the room wearing nothing but a towel. Becky recognised her as the now cleaned-up human dessert platter, and she walked over to stand next to Teresa’s chair. The MP drained her brandy quickly, and rose to her feet slipping her arm around the woman’s hips.

‘Thanks for a fun evening, Nikki,’ she said, ‘and good luck with the next book Ms Caine, I look forward to reading it.’

Teresa fumbled in her hand bag for her hotel room key, and the two women walked out of the dining room hand in hand.

‘I’d better get going as well,’ said Becky standing up, ‘I’ve got some chapters to put to bed.’

‘Talking of bed,’ said Max Schiller easing his bulk from the chair, ‘I’m still suffering with damned jet lag, so please excuse me. You’d better come with me, Nikki, we need to discuss the marketing campaign for the US West Coast.’

An hour later Becky was sitting at the table in the apartment, finishing off her
doner
kebab and chips. She stared at Rudge’s laptop screen for a few moments, before picking up the confidential party guest list they’d discovered earlier. She pushed the remains of her meal to one side, and poured herself a glass of wine before starting a new Word document.

 
  
Rudge followed the architect around the re-modelled semi-detached house, and couldn’t help but marvel at the dramatic changes. Gone were the poky ground floor living and dining rooms, replaced by a large open plan area. Oak floors and a wall of bi-fold glass doors lead into the garden, and a large television had been mounted on the wall. The master bedroom now boasted a luxurious en-suite, and the whole house was modern and clutter-free. The new kitchen looked like something from a designer homes magazine, with an island in the centre, slate flooring and thick granite worktops. Every modern electrical convenience imaginable had been installed, and there was even a television built into a kitchen cupboard. Rudge knew that his wife would appreciate this added feature, enjoying uninterrupted coverage of the crap she watched even when preparing meals.

The garden itself was unrecognisable with its snooker table smooth lawn, an extensive variety of plants, exotic shrubs and palm trees. An ornate pond with a fountain shaped like a dolphin, trickled water seductively on to the lily pads. The large patio was furnished with a designer table and chairs, protected from the elements by a gazebo and warmed by a powerful gas heater. The only thing Rudge had wanted left untouched was his shed, but he’d been perfectly happy for the workmen to re-felt the roof.

The front drive had been expertly block-paved, and the tatty fence panels had been replaced with a six foot high brick wall. As he looked down from the front bedroom window, he spotted Mr Potter standing on the pavement admiring the frontage.

‘Go on, take it all in you tinkering twat,’ Rudge said quietly, ‘and you can shove your shiplap right up your arse.’

After the architect had left, Harry pulled up on the newly laid drive in the Mercedes and Rudge rushed outside to greet him.

‘The flight is due in at eleven forty, Harry,’ said Rudge, ‘but whatever you do don’t let on you’re my driver, or even that you know me at all. As far as my wife and her sister are concerned, you’re just a posh taxi.’

‘Okay, Mr Rudge, and you want me to bring them both back here.’

‘Yes, I’d like her sister to see the house. She’s always bragging about her poxy new bungalow in Salisbury, so it would be nice to wipe the smug grin of her face.’

‘How will I recognise them?’ replied Harry.

‘You can’t really miss them,’ said Rudge with a wry grin, ‘if you spot two sun-tanned lumps looking like they had to be unloaded on and off the aircraft with a forklift, that’s them.’

Before the builders had moved in to start work, Rudge had arranged for their dreadful old furniture to be taken away by a house clearance firm. The couple’s personal effects had been moved into secure storage, and had been returned that morning.
  

The new furniture Rudge had ordered had been delivered and set up, and he’d employed a trio of cleaners to apply the finishing touches. A specialist company had already been in to put up blinds and curtains, and make up the beds with brand new sheets, pillows and duvets. The manager of Rudge’s local posh department store had personally been out to deliver dinner and tea services, an expensive canteen of cutlery plus every kitchen utensil anyone could ever need.

Despite being busy, Rudge was missing his daily workouts and swims in his apartment block’s health suite. He was also feeling lost without Becky, and decidedly miserable. Despite longing to hear the sound of her voice again, he’d resisted the temptation to telephone her. He knew he was becoming infatuated with her, but didn’t want to spoil the almost perfect platonic relationship they shared.

Rudge did a final inspection of his house before retreating into his refurbished shed with a mug of tea. He looked at his laptop screen and shook his head at the blank Word document staring back at him. In four days he’d spent a grand total of half an hour trying to write something, but he was completely stumped. His writer’s block was more like constipation, but he had yet to find a laxative to help the flow of creativity spill out on to the page. He lit a cigarette and gazed out of the shed window at his new garden, and his mobile ‘phone rang.

‘Rudge,’ he said.

‘Mr Rudge, it’s Hewlett from Isaac Allen and Partners.
 
I just thought I’d call to let you know that the purchases of Einstein & Unger and
Schopenhauer & Beavoir have been finalised.’

‘Excellent,’ said Rudge, ‘now the first thing I need you to organise is the dismissal of the Einstein & Unger
sales manager, Dave Banstead.’

‘I see, and what sort of redundancy package had you in mind?’

‘None whatsoever. I want him sacked for failing to disclose why he was dismissed from the Basingstoke branch of
Schopenhauer & Beavoir.’

‘Why was he dismissed, Mr Rudge?’

‘You can ask him that yourself,’ Rudge replied, ‘Then I would like you to approach
Bergson and Stich Motor Factors and see if they’re interested in buying both companies, but not the premises. I want them to remain empty, and I take it I do own the freehold?’

‘Yes of course, Mr Rudge,’ said Hewlett, ‘anything else?’

‘Bergson and Stich can have the other companies for a knock-down price,’ said Rudge, ‘on condition that the employees’ jobs are secure for at least five years. Any staff cuts will have to be from their existing company, but given that they’ll have a virtual monopoly they’ll probably need to take more people on rather than let anyone go.’