One
I’d just pulled into the office forecourt and was getting out of the car – as the new
doorman-chap on duty ran down the steps to take it away – ‘Stillwell‘ I believe his name
was – when my private phone burbled…
“Good afternoon Sir. Take the car sir?” said the door-chap.
“Put it away… Shan’t need it until later… Damn phone’s ringing….”
“Always at the wrong moment, mobiles, sir” he said, getting in to the driving seat.
I don’t expect unsolicited, irrelevant comments from employees – or anybody else – and
said so…but he was very new so I managed to sound reasonably pleasant.
“Sorry, Sir Richard….”
It’s all an act anyway – everything’s an act… Reality, if you came across it, would be
utterly boring…
“…and fill the car up while you’re at it,” I said, standing there, struggling a bit with
overcoat, briefcase, the damn laptop and the phone. Fortunately Celia, having been
alerted about my arrival, came prancing down the steps to take the stuff from me. “Good
afternoon, Sir Richard. May I get the phone for you?”
Usual daft smirk: ‘Sir Richard’ in public, ‘boss’ in the confines of my private offices,
just ‘sir’ though when she’s kneeling….or bending over – or on her back…..
“No, you take this lot up….” ‘Up’ being to the Top Floor… “…and I want to see the
Singapore tender when I get there; tell Asquith or whatever his name is….”
“OK”.
“’OK’? Bad girl… ‘OK’ is another thing I don’t expect – won’t have – except
occasionally from my Top Two – Celia is one, Sita the other - both of whom have been with
me longtime. PPPA’s – Principal Private Personal Assistants. Lot of jargon…. Celia’s
thirty-three, says she’s twenty-seven. Sita? Twenty-four and too near to perfect for her
own good…
“’S’mee” said the phone. Voice like gravel, unmistakeable…. Damn the woman…
“Yes,” I said, belligerent at once.
“Yer goin’ to gimme a job then?”
No. Go away.
“If you want….yes, probably…” I said… Find her some sort of job in the staff-restaurant
kitchens or something….
“I want. Fings’ll be diff’rent if I’ve gotta job. When?”
“Don’t expect anything fancy. I’ll get someone to call you…”
“Ta….” It was she who cut the phone off, not me, the cheeky cow. Another thing I won’t
have, other people – though she was only marginally ‘people’ - terminating a conversation
with me…
Chlöe. She was Chlöe. At what then seemed a lifetime ago, I’d given her a lift in the
middle of London in a violent thunderstorm and Noah’s-Flood rain: she was a complete
stranger, a ‘passer-by’, a pleb, but she’d scrambled into the Aston fast, scattering
rainwater over the pigskin. I hardly ever offer a lift to anyone but I was angry about
something at the time - so offering a stranger a lift was somehow an appropriately angry
gesture… I spend a good deal of time being angry – I don’t mean pretending – because it
Gets Things Done.
“Ta,” she’d said, then “I’m bleedin’ soaked. Goin’ acrost the river are yer? Nice
motah…”
Hell. Common as muck, dammit
“No. I’m making a call in the City, then I’m going the other way…. I’ll drop you at a
tube station. It’s an Aston Martin by the way…”
“S’why I waved yer dahn, innit…? Didn’t fink you’d stop, tho’…”
She’d been wet and cold and was young – very young – and black-haired with intensely
dark-blue-eyes and was cheeky and obviously hard-up moneywise so I’d played the
rich-silver-haired – it’s grey really, the hair - single-male-driving-an-Aston-Martin –and
had taken her all the way home to her flat – which had turned out to be in a ghastly
south-of-the-river outer suburb called Mottingham - because she said she lived there
alone: I’d had a fleeting thought that I might like to take her to bed, assuming she had a
bed. Slum it a bit, if you like...hell knows why; perhaps because I’d had a boring day
and she was different and common and, as the journey proved, cheeky and oddly attractive;
coarse as muck but oddly attractive. Smelt of rain-wet cheap clothes mostly….
Nothing had happened – I’d just dropped her off outside an unmemorable, greyish block of
a place – but for some reason – anger probably – I’d arranged to pick her up again next
day and take her to lunch. At the time it’d seemed rather like idiocy – she was no more
than nineteen or twenty or so and I’m a bit more than that - coming up fifty-plus - but
for some reason she annoyed me so I wanted to fuck her and probably beat her arse… I beat
Celia’s arse sometimes, when she makes a cods of something in the office: that’s probably
why she stays in the job - I like to think so anyway. Unless it’s the sixty-grand we pay
her. Keeps a damn strap in the drawer of her fancy desk, does Celia, just for the
purpose…. I suspect Sita knows I beat Celia’s arse, and about the strap… Good, Sita
knowing about it I mean… Half the battle – her knowing about it I mean. Don’t think I’ve
the bottle though, not with Sita. But none of that applied to the Chlöe creature; I just
had this desire to fuck her and make her squeal… No, that isn’t right - I just wanted to
possess her for an hour or so, perhaps because she was very young and strange and vulgar
and ‘common as muck’. ‘Possess’ like ‘own’ - though perhaps that wasn’t it either – I’d
never wanted to own a woman before. Maybe ‘control’ – but not necessarily ‘own’. Control
like Celia and Sita. Sita Chowdury really, an Indian heart-throb…and brilliant with it.
Not that Sita’s controllable – she’s just stunning to look at, and too clever by half;
sexy-as-hell but doesn’t know it. One day though….… In that sari and big gold-jewellery
I saw her in once. Made my prick stand on end, did Sita in a sari and big gold
jewellery…. Spank her though? I think not – a plane-load of her relatives would arrive
from Kolkata next day and shout at me, returning home with Sita – and with my balls on
some sort of ceremonial spike-thing, doused in kerosene and ignited…… Sita of course would
then have the traditional ‘kitchen accident’ - doused in Indian kerosene and ignited.
“Take you to lunch somewhere nice? Tomorrow?” I’d asked the Chlöe-creature as, still
belligerent; I shoved her out of the car.
“Not ‘arf. Somewhere special like…” I liked that: ‘Not ‘arf. Somewhere special like’
– rather than ‘Thank you Sir Richard that would be very enjoyable….”
“Right then…. Tomorrow”
She was Chlöe Simpson, ‘nineteen an’ two mumfs’, ‘on me own like wiv’ ‘arf a lousy job’
an’ prob’ly goin’ ter lose that..’ and by the time I’d taken her to lunch twice and to
dinner at the Coq twice I was obsessed with her - but completely unsure what to do about
it: with the women I am usually attracted to – or who were attracted to me – or my money
- I knew what to do to encourage - or discourage - them, but with this one I continually
felt I was out of my depth in some way. Not a feeling I liked because I couldn’t remember
experiencing it before. Ever. Edward, the chap who always served me at the Coq, gave her
abysmal clothes a decidedly-snooty look the first time I took her there… So he’s not
there any more…..
At the end of the third week, standing with her in the street beside the chuntering
Aston, about to deliver her to her flat again, I’d lied to her that it was my birthday on
the following Saturday…
“It’s my birthday next Saturday so I intend to treat myself and buy you a present”
“’Bout time. Prezzies I like. You can buy me some nice cloves…”
“Cloves?”
“Dress or sumpfin’…shoes…wot you like…”
“So you buy yourself some clothes then. Here…” and I gave her the fivers – about fifty
of them probably - which, without counting, I’d just transferred to my trouser pocket.
“Ta,” she said – just ‘Ta…” Nothing else, just ‘ta’. If I’d given Celia about two
hudred and fifty quid to spend on herself and she’d just said ‘Ta’ – I’d have had her in
the office after hours, over her desk, shoes off, skirt up…… Strap first, shafting after….
Strap after, too…
“…I’m going to be in Bristol for a week,” I said to the Urchin – that’s how I thought of
the Chlöe piece by then - “But when I get back you can come to my place with me – wearing
your new things – and I shall take you to bed”
“Bed in me new fings?”
“Don’t be obtuse. Thick” I corrected….
“You mean sex, don’tcha….”
“Something like that,” I said, “Though I shall probably spank your backside as well… You
need it….”
I think there was a pause then; certainly she looked at me very straight-faced.
“OK. Sat’dy. New cloves I like, ridin’ in yer cool motah I like, you I like - an’ I’d
like to see yer ‘ouse, rite… But I don’ do sex an’ fings, rite… An’ no spankin’.
Abs’lutely no spankin’, rite? Anyfing’ like that and that’s it… I mean it… Not inter
fings like that.. Not inter sex - nor spankin’ neither….” Double negative and she
pronounced it ‘neever’. Common as muck.
“Crap,” I said, grinning at her. I had to get her to the flat… “OK, no sex, no spanking,
just a trip to my flat – it’s got a good view of the River. I’ll have lunch brought-in,
something really celebratory…. Dinner later, if you want to… A good time all round… No
sex, no spanking….”
…A good time all round, including the sex and the spanking….
“Though a good spanking, apart from anything else, would be extremely good for you…”
No sex, no spanking? What the hell did she think young women were for? What the hell
did she think she was for? OK then, I shan’t beat your arse – not until I’ve got you over
the edge of the bed - you need a bloody good hiding, girl…On your face, over the edge of
the bed for a thrashing, and then, straight-away, on your back for a rigorous shafting….
Be nice to have them both together, side by side, Celia and this one… Different as
whatever-it-is – chalk and cheese…. Just a thought….
“….just come to lunch then, OK?”
“Rite, Sat’dy. OK. So it’s yer birfd’y. ‘Oo else is comin’?”
“Nobody….”
“Fort so… Rite… No funny business tho’. I gotta dress-up then, smart-like….? ‘Zat wot
the fivers are for – cloves fer me fer yer birfd’y? Gotcha – you want me ter look – er –
dishy-like – fer yer birfd’y?”
“No. Just get yourself some new clothes – and be yourself…look like the real you….”
“Wassat mean, be meself? ‘Look like th’ real me’; wassat mean?”
I was angry again then, because she’d probably turn-up in a scarlet top and a
micro-skirt, stockings of course – and high-heeled tip-toeing shoes, plastic shoes…..
She’d have her hair done…. Very smart… And wearing make-up….. Very smart – but a million
miles away from being – from looking like – the cheeky, coarse, south-of-the-River London
common-as-muck urchin-person I had in mind. Slumming it, me. The Chlöe of my new and
forming fantasies…My fantasy Chlöe…..
“Wassat mean?” she said again, getting into the car. “Look like meself?”
“Nothing. Sorry…” Mentally, I decided that there was no reason why she should share my
own and very new fantasies about herself…. “Just be sure you look good….”
“Wot’s ‘good’ mean?” She looked better, sitting in the Aston. “I wanna look jus’rite,
don’I? Bein’ ‘ooked-up wiv’ a bleedin’ millionaire or sumpfin’ ain’t an everyday jolly is
it?” she said, grinning her urchin-grin at me and cuddling my arm as the car pulled away
from the kerb. My prick stirred under my pants because I was thinking about how I’d
really like her to look on Saturday…. So, thinking about it, I pulled the car off the
road, stopped, and looking out through the windscreen, not at her, I told her. Angrily,
maybe… Told her what would be ‘good’ and how I wanted her to look on Saturday… What I
wanted her to be on Saturday…. It took a little time, because it had to be right - in
every detail - though I was making it up as I went. Almost….
She didn’t say anything at all until I’d finished; even then there was a longish silence
before she spoke, very quietly, not looking at me…
“Rite,” she said. “S’long as there’s no sex nor anyfink.. Gotcha – I fink…Yus”.
Then after a pause, “Diffrent innit – fort it might be sumpfin’ different… Nice tho’, I
fink…. Nice but weird… Dunno. I’m nineteen y’know, nearly twenty… ‘Zat ow you fink of
me then, wearin’ fings like that?”
What makes you imagine I think about you. Damn cheek…
“Yes”
I expected her to suggest a further fifty fivers, but she didn’t
“S’wot you call a bittuva challenge, like, innit? Fer me, I mean…”
“No, you’re a natural…
“Ta…. On Sat’dy - in cloves like that…. An’ then you gimme a proper job, rite? I need
a proper job… Proper place to live…”
‘Shit’ I thought. “Maybe we’ll talk about that” Maybe we won’t….
“I ‘ave ter be like that when yer collek’ me, Sat’dy?”
“Yes…”
She thought about something for a minute. “Um. Mite be nice… Me, like that, inna posh
motor …inna posh ‘ouse…”
“It’s a flat, not a house…. “
“Don’ matter…. ‘Ow old yer wan’ me ter be?”
What? Yesss… Right question…
“Younger, Chlöe….”
“Rite, ‘course yer do…” Pause. “‘Ow abaht sixteen, fifteen-sixteen. ‘Ave ter be… Yus,
sixteen – I kin be sixteen… Nice, sixteen again… Like it…. Sixteen’s OK. ‘Ad some of
me best times when I was fifteen-sixteen… Nice… An’ me worst too. ‘Ow long before I get
a job then….?
“I’ll talk to you about that – I have to see what’s possible…..”
If she proved any good – on Saturday – then afterwards she could work at the office, in
the staff kitchens maybe. Convenient for taking her back to my place – when I felt like
a bit of slumming…
“But ‘as ter be Satd’y fust, yus?”
“Exactly….”
Very positively, but still not looking at me, she said “Rite then. Like it… Diff’rent -
but I don’ wanna see yer - or ‘ear from yer‘til you collek’ me Satd’y, rite? Pick me up
Satd’y. ‘Leven o’clock then…”
Cheeky, giving me orders…
“Yes…”
“Definit…?”
Impertinent cow…
“Yes…”
But fair enough, if she did it, I didn’t want to see her or speak to her - or hear from
her until Saturday. I wanted her to be the new Chlöe, suddenly, on Saturday….
Five minutes later, in the car, after saying nothing more, she said “Like it” – but then
we didn’t mention it again, save for me to say “Eleven am exactly, Saturday, Chlöe”. I
took her to lunch in Leo’s tiny, crazily expensive, crazily superb Italian place in Old
Compton Street then. Madness. Fantasy. Perfect, all of it….. Especially perfect because
she was on her own. No money, no family, bugger all ‘friends’. No wandering males –
probably because she’d be a bit of a spitfire – she had spitfire-eyes…. I like spitfires
because you can tame them – unless they’re the red-headed, freckled, pale-as-wax kind.
They fuck like rattlesnakes but they’re always on a permanently short-fuse – a one
millimetre short fuse….. So I leave them alone now….
After I’d fed her – Leo dancing attendance as always – and, I noticed, casting
oddly-interested looks at her – I pleaded work and took her straight home again, where, as
I said “shove off then – ‘til Saturday”, she took the rest of my afternoon and my evening
apart by saying, before she got out of the car..
“Wot am I gonna be then? Yer niece or sumpfin? People’ll ask?”
“What people?”
“Dunno, do I? An’ if yer gimme a job, will I still – er – see yer, after like?”
Yes. Possibly – when I’m not busy…
“One thing at a time” I said
“Ow long ‘m I goin’ ter be this sixteen person…”
“I don’t know…. Depends….Look, just possibly – just possibly, what I have in mind is a
job for you at offices, in the City. Not an office job… Maybe we need someone …. Decent
wages…”
“Permanent job, like?”
“Yes… If there is one…”
“An’ I’ll be yer sixteen year old niece, right? Workin’ there…?”
Of course not… “Look, I haven’t thought about it …”
“You bossy, are yer? . I mean strict wiv’ people like, I mean….?”
“Look, as I said, I haven’t thought…. You wouldn’t be on my staff…”
“OK. But jus’ becoz I’m bein’ yer sixteen year old ‘niece’ doesn’ mean I git treated
different…”
What does that mean? “What’s that mean?”
“Means I know hows strick people are, uncles an’ such, bringin’ up a
fifteen-sixteen-year old niece. I know… An’ I’m ter be yer niece, rite, which makes yer
me uncle, rite? So if you’re bringin’ me up like…an’ I fink I’ll like that…it means no
whackin’s or nuffin….canes or nuffin’…”
“You had an uncle – or an aunt - who – er - brought you up. Who caned you?”
“Bofe… ’nuncle an ‘is sister….Notta real uncle….No names no bleedin’ pack drill, rite.
I mean jus’ no canin’, rite… Can’t ‘ave ther cane…. See yer Sat’dy, ‘leven o’clock. ‘Eere,
an don’ be late like. Gissa coupla’ twenties….”
“I’ve just given you a wad of fivers…”
“Them’s fer me cloves. This is fer me ‘lectric bill…”
This is also ridiculous, but it’s my own fault. “Here then, twenty pounds – and that’s
it...”
“Ta…”
| 
