Blokebusters Page 10

  The doors opened at the ground floor and Georgia searched the reception area for Matt. He was sprawled out as if settling down for a night of TV on one of the leather sofas. As soon as he saw her he beamed and leapt to his feet. Jeff watched him hug her, the comfortable way his hands grasped her hips, the eager way she presented her face for kissing and the tangible warmth between them. Matt noticed him standing by Georgia.

  “Hello – eh?” He didn’t know his name and cursed himself for trying to use it.

  “Jeff,” Jeff prompted.

  The men shook hands.

  “He’s in my department.” Georgia glanced at him as if to question why he was still there.

  “We’re friends too,” Jeff added, noticing the sceptical look that passed between Matt and Georgia. He took a step back. “Well, I should be going. Nice meeting you again Matt.”

  Matt waited until Jeff was out of earshot.

  “I’ve met him?”

  “Several times.” Georgia grinned at his bemused expression.

  “Don’t remember,” he shrugged. “Unbutton your coat.”

  “Why?” She struck a coy pose; Princess Di eyes and toes turned in.

  “Because I want to see you.” He undid the buttons, his jaw slackening when her coat fell open. “Christ almighty.”

  She pulled her coat closed.

  “Is it too awful?”

  “Awful? You look amazing.” He gently lifted her hands from her coat and held it open again. “The poor bloke won’t know what’s hit him. It’s bordering on unfair.” He stroked her hands with his thumbs and glanced down. “What’s happened to your ring?”

  “In my purse. Thought it might hamper my appeal.”

  He frowned but didn’t reply.

  As they walked to the bar, swept along the pavement amid the tide of grey commuters, the final shreds of Georgia’s nerve deserted her. She felt overwhelming compassion for the client, so upset and desperate that she’d turned to them for help, but also found her mind roaming down avenues she’d long thought barricaded to her. What would’ve happened if she’d never met Matt? It could be her in a bad relationship with a useless bloke, never knowing if she could believe what he said one minute to the next. Matt had never lied anything but the whitest of the white lies; it wasn’t in his nature, he couldn’t do it.

  “You OK?” he asked, giving her arm a squeeze.

  “Slight wobble. Don’t worry, I’ve already lost my lunch so there’s no further risk. Just gurgly. Bit tense.”

  “Don’t worry. Borborygmus is common in such circumstances.” Another squeeze.

  “Borborwhat?”

  “Borborygmus.” He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you learn anything at school? Borborygmus – a rumbling or gurgling noise that occurs from the movements of fluid and gas in the intestines.”

  “Keep your wig on Lord Snooty, we didn’t all go to posh schools. My biology classes consisted of cutting up leaves and being told, solely in euphemisms, how not to get pregnant. God, I’m going to have that bloody word on the brain all evening now.”

  They grinned at each other, neither taking any offence at the exchange.

  *

  The street they turned into had charity survey-takers posted at short intervals along the pavement, the logic being that if you got past one another would nab you. The first one stopped them to ask if they had five minutes to answer some questions.

  “No thanks,” Georgia said and tugged on Matt’s sleeve to indicate he should continue walking.

  They walked quickly in silence until the second survey-taker blocked their route.

  “Sorry – can’t stop.” Matt avoided eye contact, his hands out in supplication.

  The third survey-taker pounced on them almost instantly.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake just fuck off,” Georgia snapped. The survey-taker, a gentle faced middle-aged woman in a red cagoule stared at her open mouthed in shock.

  “Georgia, I don’t think that was necessary.” Matt turned to the woman. “I’m very sorry – she’s under a lot of pressure at the moment.”

  “No I’m not – I’m bloody not. Don’t you dare apologise for me,” she turned to the woman who hadn’t moved since Georgia’s first verbal assault. “I’m not sorry at all – you buggers think that just ‘cos you’re holding a clipboard and working for a charity you can hassle people all you like. Well you can’t. Why don’t you go out and get a proper job?”

  Matt steered her away by the elbow. The woman stood shell-shocked and immobile. Matt imagined her sitting at home with her husband later that evening, drinking cocoa and emotionally discussing how rude younger people were these days. When they’d got a short distance away he turned and mouthed ‘sorry’ to her. Georgia turned sharply.

  “No I’m not.”

  They walked on in silence. Matt could hear the anger in her steps.

  “How many bones are you aiming to crush before you let go?” he asked.

  “What? Oh. Sorry.” She loosened her grip on his hand.

  “So. What’s your name?”

  “Marilyn.”

  “Named after?”

  “Marilyn Manson,” she deadpanned.

  He abruptly stopped walking and a man in a suit crashed into him muttering, “Arsehole,” before sidestepping him.

  “Be serious.”

  “Marilyn Monroe.”

  They continued walking.

  “Job?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Senior executive for Ann Summers. I head a team who deal with quality control for videos and publications.”

  “Which entails?”

  “Watching and reading lots of soft porn.” She tried not to giggle. All her answers were based on the questionnaire completed by the client about her man’s likes and dislikes.

  “And do you enjoy it?”

  “Yes. But it makes me very horny.” She loaded the last two words of the sentence with lust.

  Matt gulped.

  “Right.” He composed himself and continued in his more usual, lower voice, “How will you identify your Rabbit?”

  “He always sits at the bar and pretends to read a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He wears an Oyster Rolex.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fake.” Her crisp pronunciation cut the air.

  “You are permitted to touch his?”

  “Hand, arm and/or thigh.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I know the drill. Do we have to keep going over it?”

  “And your mood will be?”

  “Flirtatious, to a backing track of borborygmus,” she said, rubbing her hand across his crotch.

  He caught her hand by the wrist and stopped dead. A woman in a suit walking behind him bumped into his back and snapped, “Look where you’re going!” before continuing her route.

  “Georgia —”

  “Marilyn,” she corrected him.

  “Georgia, I’m just trying to make sure everything goes according to plan. Don’t make a joke out of it.” He let go of her wrist and they continued walking. “Now, one last question. At what point can you leave?”

  “As soon as he makes a direct offer, or blatantly obvious hint, that he’s interested in having his wicked way with me.”

  Matt stared at the pavement. They’d reached the bar the Rabbit would be in. The sordidness of the whole thing suddenly hit him and he didn’t understand how Georgia could be so casual about it. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’m not going to have sex with him. He might not even make an offer.”

  “He will. Call it a hunch.” He turned her to face him, checking first that there was no one about to walk into him. “Right, the most important bit – if you panic, or are in any danger at all, what will you do?”

  “I’ve called your number up on my mobile.” She fumbled into her bag and brought out her mobile, flipping the case open to show his number displayed on the screen. “If there’s any trouble, I’ll hit the ‘dial’ button.”

  “You know I
won’t be more than a minute away.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t think of a person she’d trust more – not even her mother.

  The cold autumn air had made the tip of his nose turn red. Georgia had always loved his distinguished, longer than average nose, a sign of his breeding. She cupped his face and traced the outline of his lips with her thumb.

  “I’m going inside now – I may be gone some time.”

  “I don’t even know whether to wish you luck or not. So I won’t. I’ll just say – be careful. And remember, I’m right here if you need me.” He scouted around the buildings. “I’ll be in that bar there – spinning out a pint for as long as humanly possible. My mobile will be in my hand all night. Call me as soon as you leave.”

  “Will do.”

  The heat of the bar hit Georgia in the face like a shovel on entering. The bar room was noisy and crowded but the bar itself wasn’t a popular place to sit, most choosing to occupy the dimly-lit tables and cubicles around the walls. It was the sort of bar where people lurked in corners, publicly indulging in romantic activities that would make their parents ashamed. The music was slightly too loud and the thumping bass line tingled in the soles of her feet. She scanned the bar for her quarry, momentarily surprised by how attractive he was. Part of her had hoped he wouldn’t be there and she could leave. But he was there. He looked like he spent time and money on his appearance. Fiona would love him. Georgia found him a bit girly for her tastes; yes the suit was beautifully cut and his shirt crisp and snowy, even at the end of the day. His skin was no stranger to moisturiser and his fair hair beautifully cut, not a strand out of place. Give me a faded Star Wars t-shirt and mad hair any day she grinned before correcting herself; Georgia wasn’t standing appraising him – Marilyn was.

  She headed for the stool next to him, her walk displaying a confidence her insides didn’t support. The four stools alongside him were empty.

  “May I sit here?” she asked, pointing to the stool next to his.

  “Be my guest,” he replied without looking up. His voice was educated and middle class but not in Matt’s league. He smoothed a page of his Wall Street Journal.

  She pushed her coat from her shoulders and let it drape over the low back of the stool.

  “Isn’t it a fabulous article in there today about arbitraging?” A client had said the line to her once and she’d stored it away in her mind, never seriously expecting to use it.

  “I haven’t read it yet.” He finally looked up. His eyes fixed on her chest like he’d never seen breasts before, it was only with real effort he managed to heave them up to her face.

  “You read the Wall Street Journal too?” he asked.

  About as often as you do, Georgia thought, but Marilyn answered, “It’s very sexy. All those men in suits making money through their intelligence.”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced to seek out a barman and he took the hint.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he spluttered like a sixteen-year-old boy who couldn’t believe his luck. He didn’t seem a ladies’ man.

  “Vodka and tonic.” She left the ‘please’ off with effort. Marilyn wouldn’t be grateful for a drink; she’d expect it. Georgia hated tonic water but decided that Marilyn wouldn’t be a Diet Coke kind of girl.

  “Vodka and tonic for the lady,” he said then added, “a double.” The barman put the drink down in front of her, snatching a cheeky glimpse of her cleavage.

  “I love a man who knows quality.” She held his wrist arrogantly, twisted towards her in a way that would cause him discomfort. Her eyes lazily rolled up from his watch to his face. “That looks like a fake to me.” She smiled, daring him to argue.

  “I hope not,” he laughed nervously. “Cost me 1,500 quid.”

  You bloody liar, Georgia thought, but Marilyn answered, “Do you always pick expensive things?”

  Panic flickered across his face.

  “You’re not a tart are you?”

  She realised she must be coming on too strong and should back off before she petrified him. But he had just insulted her. What would Marilyn do? She picked up her drink and threw it in his face. It was a new experience for her and the devilry of it thrilled her. She suddenly understood that the business could let her do all the bad things she’d never normally dare to. He wasn’t expecting her assault and blinked, his mouth open in shock.

  “Would I have done that if I was?” she sneered. “Maybe I misjudged you – I saw you across the bar and thought, ‘He looks nice’, but you’re just a prick like all the others.” She kicked herself that her temper might have spoiled everything and froze in the act of getting off the high stool, realising that one leg on the ground and one on the foot bar splayed her legs in a rather fetching way. He’d noticed too.

  “Look – I’m sorry. Please don’t go. Please. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “What’s the point in staying?” She bit back a giggle; Marilyn definitely wasn’t a giggler. “I don’t even have anything to drink.” Georgia would never have risked that; she was rapidly bonding with Marilyn. Marilyn the Devil Woman.

  “Vodka and tonic for the lady.” The barman served it with a visible smirk and discretely placed a towel in front of the Rabbit.

  Georgia took a sip of her drink.

  “So. Do you have a name?” she purred, vowing not to screw things up again.

  “Michael.” He dabbed his face with the towel.

  At least he’s honest about that, she thought and decided to stop giving him such a hard time. Just because his wife doubted him didn’t make him guilty. Nor did the fact he’d bought her a drink; Matt had bought Emily a drink but she wasn’t accusing him of infidelity.

  “And you? Do you have a name?”

  “Yes thank you. My parents wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “And it is?”

  “Guess.”

  “Aphrodite.” He smiled but it was a charming rather than lewd one.

  “Marilyn.” She wasn’t sure which way things were heading. He seemed happy to chat to her but that could just be politeness.

  During the subsequent hour as they talked about their jobs, she noticed that he gave a slightly grander description of his job than the client had. She also noticed how he rearranged his trousers when she told him what Marilyn did for a living but resisted looking whether it was out of necessity.

  She started to get fidgety after an hour and a half. Her hourly rate was falling below £100 and would only fall further the more time she wasted on him. He’d bought all the drinks so at least she hadn’t incurred any cost there. She decided to move to the end game. Stretching her arms in a theatrical yawn, which almost resulted in tumbling out of her top she gave him her sexiest grin, the one that turned Matt into putty.

  “I’m bored Michael. This bar’s no fun.”

  His eyes widened as he twigged what she was driving at.

  “And what would be fun?” he asked. The ambiguity of his tone frustrated her.

  “I’m sure you can answer that question yourself.” She squeezed the top of his thigh and he couldn’t resist looking down at her hand, checking how far she was from his groin. A smile flickered briefly around his lips and he opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind.

  “What were you going to say?” Georgia asked, whilst silently screaming Make me an offer you ratbag, so I can go home. Her brain urged the rest of her body to keep calm; Think of what you’re doing; this could save Matt’s garden.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes it does. Tell me.” She still couldn’t predict what way he’d go. Maybe it was all wrong. He might never have cheated on his wife but the temptation of her was panicking him – putting him in a position he couldn’t refuse, forcing him to be reckless. What if her antics upped the number of men who were willing to commit adultery rather than reduced it? She could become a target of national hatred. Georgia, she told herself, you’re going to burn in hell. They’re going to reserve a room just for you. And
it’s going to be very hot. It was all so wrong. She glanced around at the other people in the bar. They were with each other because they wanted to be – not because they were being paid. Or rather, if they were being paid it was at least by the person they were with, not some third party. The situation was bordering on perverted. That makes me a pervert, she shuddered. Why did Matt ever have to come up with such an idea? Perhaps he was a pervert too. Suppose he was outside getting off on the thought of her with another man? What if he started suggesting they do weird things together involving vegetables or rubber clothing? To calm herself she took deep breaths. Michael watched her chest rise and fall. He leant closer to her and his aftershave assaulted her nose, the strong citrus smell putting her in mind of kitchen cleaner.

  “I was wondering if… ”

  “If what?”

  “You’d like to make me a coffee back at your place?” His eyes were glossy and predatory.

  Shit, Georgia’s mind raced through the client’s questionnaire; were euphemisms acceptable? She couldn’t remember.

  “Why can’t we go back to yours?” she asked purely to buy thinking time.

  “My flatmate might object.” Georgia was momentarily impressed by his considerateness until she remembered that it was his ‘flatmate’ paying for her services. He smiled. “They can’t handle that I have a better sex life than them.”

  Tears of relief pricked her eyes; he’d finally mentioned the dreaded S-word. She blinked them away and tried to decide how to close proceedings. What would she do if the situation were for real?

  “Have you got any protection?” She wondered too late whether there was a sexier way to put it. Just asking the question made her feel dirtier than she ever had before. It didn’t seem as fun as it had when she and Fiona were laughing about it in Matt’s office. He took a £5 note from his wallet and passed it to her. “I always think the lady should choose. You go and select something – I’ll wait here.”

  She slipped off her stool and surreptitiously picked up her coat and bag.

  “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, then pulled a concerned face. “Are you sure you want to do this? Only you don’t look like the sort of man who picks up women in a bar.” She felt she needed to give him a final chance to opt out; he really didn’t seem the Jeff-style womaniser she had in mind and she fretted that she might have corrupted a good man.