Blokebusters Read online

  “Were the names he’s used very different?”

  “Completely – first time he was Dan Cohen. This time he was Louis Goldstein. And get this – he asked me my name and before I could answer he put his fingers to my lips and said he didn’t care what it was. He’d call me Georgia – it’s his favourite name – how freaky is that? He smelt great too. He’d look awesome in my bed – the white bedding would really suit him.”

  Georgia told herself it could be a fluke and that the panic in her stomach was unwarranted. He wasn’t anything creepy – just a bloke who put it about a bit and picked girlfriends who were Blokebusters’ target clients. Georgia was a pretty name – it was bound to be some men’s favourite.

  “Are you all right? Or are you jealous that I’ve met this gorgeous man twice?”

  “He sounds pretty tasty.” She forced a laugh. “I should have a look at the client’s email, see a photo of him.”

  “Won’t help you – the photos on both occasions have been crap. That’s why I didn’t know it was the same man before coming face-to-face with him. I’ve only ever picked him out ‘cos they’ve told me what he’ll be wearing or where he’ll be sitting.”

  The mention of Dan Goldstein, Louis Cohen, Dan Cohen, Louis Goldstein – whatever his real name was, started a tingle in Georgia’s stomach. Fiona was right. He was gorgeous and he did emit a hard to define energy. Georgia couldn’t think of him without thinking of sex. It hurt like a kick in the stomach every time she conjured up his image.

  “Fi – don’t tell Matt you had a repeat client. He’ll think it’s cranky and we’re at risk. I don’t want him to have any reason to try and stop the business.” She hated lying. It made it feel like she had something to hide.

  “I thought he was fine about it all these days.”

  “It comes and goes,” Georgia said and Fiona nodded.

  Matt entered the room.

  “Hello Fi, you sneaky twosome – you didn’t tell me you’d cracked open the biscuits.” He scanned the table. “Only custard creams? No choccy ones?”

  “You sit down – I’ll get them,” Georgia said.

  “I think I’m capable of sourcing some biscuits.”

  “Sit down,” she insisted, as if somehow it would make up for her wrongful thoughts.

  Matt grinned at her and sat down.

  “Every bloke should have a missus like mine,” he said to Fiona.

  Georgia leant against the kitchen worktop. What was it about Dan? Why did she find him so attractive when he was so different to Matt? Matt was her soul mate; she wouldn’t change a hair on his head. How could she be attracted to a vain, arrogant man who’d spend longer getting ready in the morning than she would?

  *

  When Matt left the house at five Georgia couldn’t settle. If she sat she wanted to stand. If she turned the television on she wanted to read. She went up to Matt’s computer and continued working through the client submissions. The coming week was going to be busy. Both Emily and Fiona were booked solid for four nights and Georgia for two nights. Neither Emily nor Fiona complained. Fiona had explained that it was more fun and certainly more educational than any evening class she’d attended.

  One questionnaire in particular grabbed her attention. The answers seemed familiar in places. The Rabbit’s name: Danny Cohen. She stared at the screen as if doing so would yield answers. Eventually she opened the attached photo file. It was him. Again. But unlike the previous photos this was a good one; he was facing the camera and smiling – like he knew he was grinning at her. The client requested that she be able to listen in this time – a variation on the norm. Georgia realised she was grinding her teeth and stopped. Matt would be listening in. She’d be in no danger. Unsure whether she was doing something sensible or stupid, she assigned the client to her worksheet. Apparently, Danny Cohen was out of the country on business for a month and the client wanted the testing to occur in six weeks’ time, mid March.

  Gyp leapt onto her lap and demanded some attention.

  “I suppose you’re moaning ‘cos I haven’t combed you yet this evening? Come on – let’s take you downstairs.” She carried him downstairs, coating herself with ginger fluff.

  *

  Matt collected Emily and they drove into London together. Emily sat in the passenger seat re-reading the client’s questionnaire.

  “Sounds a right dirty sod this one,” she chuckled. “Into all sorts – filthier the better. Good for him.”

  “Be careful – don’t push him too far. You never know how stable the weirder ones are.”

  Emily crossed her legs, her skirt was so short that Matt was certain he could see her knickers if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. He glanced briefly at her legs but only to critically compare them to Georgia’s; they didn’t even come close.

  “What happens to middle-aged blokes that makes them all become dirty old men?”

  “How should I know?” he shrugged.

  “When do you think it will happen to you?”

  “You’re assuming it hasn’t already?”

  She giggled.

  “Got a bit of a cheek hasn’t she – this woman. Paying to get him tested when she’s his bloody mistress! Why does she need us? She already knows he’s a cheating piece of shit. She cheats on his missus with him. I’m going to try and make him talk as dirty as possible. Serve that old tart right.”

  “That’s what I like to hear – impartiality.”

  Emily shifted in her seat to get a better look at him.

  “You say very clever things – I can see why Georgia likes you. You’re nice. I bet you never lose your temper, or forget birthdays and anniversaries, or argue about putting the bins out.”

  He sensed she was trying to disarm him. He was permanently on his guard around Emily.

  “That’s the image I give to the world. Can you see Georgia being satisfied with ‘nice’?” He loaded it with sarcasm to make Emily wonder. Inside he cringed, praying that Georgia would always be satisfied with ‘nice’. Why did women have to continually crush him by calling him nice?

  Emily eyed him up and down wondering what it was like to have sex with such a tall man. More tiring, she decided, what with everything being further apart.

  They drove on with the stereo providing the only sound. Emily had insisted on her Olly Murs CD to “put her in the mood”. Matt tried to block it out. He’d never heard anything so bland in his life. The only mood it put him in was a murderous one… preferably starting with Mr Murs himself. It made him long for anything else – even a Bobby Darin CD.

  *

  Emily skipped into the bar, unwilling to stay and chat to the client. Matt knew she’d behave as badly as possible as she disliked the client and the questionnaire gave her carte blanche as to how she treated the Rabbit. Matt discretely opened a window; the client watched disapprovingly.

  “It helps reception,” he lied, pointing to the microphone equipment. He’d opened it to let some of her perfume escape. It caught in the back of his throat and made him cough. To stop his cough he took a toffee from his pocket. “Would you like one?” he asked. All clients were offered a complimentary toffee. Matt reasoned that listening to your love life fall apart would be less devastating if you had a toffee in your mouth.

  “No thank you. I’m watching my weight.”

  She was a bag of bones. Even wearing a heavy coat she looked skinny. Her make-up was thick and overpoweringly colourful. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was a prostitute. The client stared at Matt critically.

  “I was hoping Larry would be here.”

  Matt smiled what he hoped was a charming smile.

  “Larry doesn’t work at weekends.”

  The client nodded in disappointment.

  Emily had a job spotting the Rabbit and feared that he might not be there; she was yet to have a ‘no show’ and didn’t want to start with this one – not when the embalmed-looking cow of a mistress was listening in, waiting to be devastated. The bar was darkly dec
orated in a North African colour palette of orange, purple and burgundy. The lighting was dim and she needed two circuits of the floor to spot him tucked away at a corner table. She was dressed according to her brief: short skirt, high heels, push-up bra, skimpy vest top covered with a sheer overshirt. Apparently he liked the element of unwrapping the present.

  “You can’t be on your own?” she asked him, implying that such a handsome man must be with someone.

  “Luckily I am.”

  In the car, Matt frowned. The voice was familiar but the name, Graham Peters, meant nothing to him.

  The client detected Matt’s look.

  “Yeah, he is an oily sod.”

  “What does he do for a living?” Matt asked. Perhaps if he could place him he might remember why he recognised the voice.

  “He’s a surgeon.”

  Matt’s face fell. Peters. Peters was Alan’s name. Nancy’s husband. Nancy and Alan Peters. Did he have a brother? Shit. He recalled the last time they went to Nancy and Alan’s home. Alan had shown him the new golf clubs he’d bought. The leather bag had his initials on it: AGP. Alan Graham Peters. It had to be. He smiled at the client. Georgia would skin him alive if she asked a question about the mistress he couldn’t answer. His brain went into overdrive trying to log everything about her: what would she ask? Hair – dyed, make-up – clownish, clothes – expensive, perfume – strong and spicy. That would cover it, he decided.

  “Why are you giggling?” the client asked suddenly, looking at him like he was a simpleton.

  “Sorry. Just thinking of something funny. Sorry.”

  Emily was getting on swimmingly with Graham AKA Alan. For the past half hour he’d addressed everything he’d said to her breasts. Emily loved her job. Winding up men, whipping them into a frenzy and getting paid for it had to be the best thing in the world. She rounded her shoulders so her breasts skimmed the table.

  “Tell me what you’d like to do this evening,” she teased him, running her finger down his forehead, nose and lip before dipping it into his mouth seductively.

  And boy did Alan spell it out. Matt momentarily forgot that Alan’s mistress was sitting next to him and let his jaw bungee jump to his knees and back again whilst listening to Alan, with a surgeon’s precision, describe everything he wanted to do, how he’d do it and what it would feel like. It certainly answered Matt’s question of why Nancy kept him in the spare bedroom.

  The mistress let out a snivel and Matt remembered he had company. He didn’t particularly like Nancy so reasoned he had to feel even less for the mistress. But she was a human being and she was upset.

  “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault – he sounds a… ” He ran out of words.

  “A bastard,” she helped him out. “But I love him. He’s an animal, untameable, feral but dynamite. Maybe it’s my fault – or maybe it’s him; he’s insatiable – perhaps he’s just too much man for one woman. I know I shouldn’t have done this; I shouldn’t be here. As if he could ever be happy with just three women in his life.”

  Three women! Matt wanted to shout. Who was the third? He had never felt so inadequate. Alan. He of the pastel shirts, grey loafers and Brylcream – dynamite? Was he really what women wanted? Georgia never seemed that smitten with him. Was she pretending?

  “Good grief,” Emily spluttered, back in the bar. “In one evening? You’ve got me all in a state. My heart’s beating like mad. Feel.” She took his hand and slid it onto her chest, so his fingers slipped under her vest top.

  “That isn’t actually where your heart is.” Alan slid his hand down her front cupping her breast and squeezing it, before resting his hand underneath it. “This is where it is.”

  Emily gasped; he may look like a stereotypical disgusting uncle but he knew how to use his hands. She’d never been handled like that before.

  The client grew restless in the car.

  “She’s had the offer of sex – she should be leaving. What’s she playing at?”

  “Please remember, we’re offering a very discrete private service. She’s just waiting for an opportunity to wrap things up so he doesn’t suspect anything.” Matt prayed he was right. He looked out of his side window to hide his concern from the client.

  “Shall I get you another drink?” Alan asked.

  “No thank you,” Emily said primly although her expression contradicted her words. Alan smiled at her and slid his hand up her thigh. Emily let out a low moan of pleasure.

  The client glared at Matt as if he’d made the sound. He frantically dialled Emily’s mobile but she ignored it. He switched off the microphone.

  “Well, I think you’ve got your answer. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted to hear but – I suppose it’s better you know.”

  The client got out of the car and stalked off to the nearby Tube station. Matt locked the car and went into the bar. Emily was putting the reputation of the firm at risk. By the time he found their table, Alan was quite flushed. He had his tongue wedged down Emily’s cleavage.

  “Fancy seeing you here!” Matt smiled. It took Emily a second to realise Matt wasn’t speaking to her. Alan had his hand under her skirt, his arm only visible from the wrist upwards as if he was operating a glove puppet.

  “Matt!” he said.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Matt made sure the grin stayed on his face, not that it was difficult to see the humour in the situation.

  “She was just leaving,” Alan said, glaring at her coldly.

  “Great – I’ll get the beers in then.” He walked with Emily to the bar, and when he was certain Alan couldn’t see, he added, “If I see you behaving like that again with a client you’ll be sacked. You got the offer – you should’ve left. We’re not a prostitution business. How do you think it sounded to us listening in? What would Fi say if I told her? How could you put yourself at risk like that?”

  Emily clutched his arm.

  “I’m sorry. I got carried away. Please don’t tell Fi. Please.”

  “Go and do the rest of your jobs – consider this a warning.” Matt was never sure he was convincing when he was angry but Emily seemed to heed his words. She was just starting to walk away when Matt pulled her back. “Did you really get carried away? Is he that good?”

  “I know he doesn’t look much but he’s incredible,” Emily sighed. “His fingers – they feel like they get under your skin. Who is he? You obviously know each other.”

  “Old work colleague.” He watched her leave. After a struggle he got served and took the beers over to Alan. Alan never drank beer, preferring wine or spirits. Matt knew he’d drink beer tonight. Anything to win Matt over.

  “Beer – great. Thanks.” Alan puckered up as he took a sip. “Ehm… I feel I should explain about what you think you might’ve seen.”

  “Is there anything to explain?”

  “It may have looked bad.”

  Matt rubbed his jaw to mask his grin.

  “Looked like you had your hand up a young girl’s skirt to me. Practically in her knickers.” Matt peered at him innocently waiting for the pathetic excuse.

  “I’d never be unfaithful to Nancy,” Alan said.

  Matt smiled.

  “Of course not.”

  “She’s everything to me.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “My life would be nothing without her.”

  “Of course it would.”

  “She doesn’t have to know. Does she?” Alan pleaded.

  “She won’t hear it from me.” Georgia he couldn’t vouch for.

  Matt got home at nine. He hadn’t expected to be delayed, certainly not in the way he had been. It had taken all his willpower not to phone Georgia from the car and tell her what had happened but he wanted to see her face as he related events. Georgia was in her dressing gown watching a film, curled up on the sofa with a pot of ice cream.

  “I’d given you up for lost,” she said. “How’d it go?”

  “Fine,” Matt smirked in a way that h
e knew would annoy her.

  “Fine?”

  “Hmm.” He sat down and took the DVD remote control from her, switching the film off.

  “What did you do that for? Cary was about to tell Sophia Loren he loved her.”

  “You don’t need fiction – not tonight. For I have a tale to tell which I guarantee will not disappoint.”

  She stared at him suspiciously but all he did was smirk back at her.

  “Come on then – spit it out.”

  He told her everything except for Emily’s indiscretion. Georgia’s only words for five minutes were, “No!” and “No way!” expressed in various different tones of disbelief and amusement.

  Matt related all the details about Alan’s mistress he’d so carefully noted, proud at how much he remembered.

  “What type of shoes did she have?” Georgia asked.

  “Type of shoes? That’s not fair – how on earth would I know?”

  “Did they match her bag?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was her bag?”

  “Small, square-ish.” He realised he was light-years away from passing muster in recollection of accessories and clothing.

  “Did it have a logo on it? Is he buying her fancy stuff?”

  “It may have had some Gs on it – but that might just have been the pattern.”

  “He’s buying her Gucci,” Georgia whispered in awe.

  “Are you going to tell Nancy?” He slipped her dressing gown from her shoulder to kiss her skin.

  “I don’t know. We know he’s in the spare bedroom – maybe she already knows. Jesus… who’d have thought Alan was such a stud?” She’d realised he was lecherous but not a Casanova – he didn’t look the type.

  “You should’ve heard some of the things he said to Emily,” Matt said, instantly regretting it.

  “Tell me.” Georgia sat up excitedly.

  “Don’t you want to see the rest of your film?”

  “I’d rather you spoke dirty to me.”

  “Georgia, you know I’m no good at that sort of —”

  “Tell me in bed,” she said, discarding the ice cream pot on the coffee table and dragging him upstairs.