Lady Helena de Barrie stepped out of the taxi and paid the fare, adding a generous
tip.
The Cabby looked worried.
“Are yer sure this is the place, mum?”
Helena surveyed the dingy streets with some concern but she nodded. Nevertheless,
when the taxi had departed she felt very isolated.
Just across the street a big Negro in an orange jacket and purple trousers chatted
with a small, unshaven, white man who looked as if he was more than a little intoxicated.
A few yards away two mulatto women in short skirts and leather jackets hovered as if
waiting for something. There were a few other passers by but none were the sort of person
whom Helena encountered in her usual shopping haunts on Bond Street or in Knightsbridge.
Helena de Barrie was a stunning looking woman, aged in her mid thirties but
appearing much younger. She was tall, blonde and obviously wealthy. Everything about her,
make-up, jewellery, clothes and most of all, her bearing, was high class.
And everything about the shabby square in which she stood was squalid.
She gazed at the entrance of the building and glanced again at the piece of paper,
which had guided her here. It was unmistakably the place where she had been told to come.
She pulled the sable coat about her, wondering briefly how the girls nearby could
bear the cold wearing such skimpy gear, then she went up the steps and entered through the
dowdy doors, noting the uncleaned windows with distaste.
Facing her was a long corridor, drab and dirty, with tattered linoleum flooring and
cream painted walls, which had long since faded to a dirty grey colour. At the far end was
a lift. On one side ran a long counter and behind it was a scruffy, middle-aged man
reading a magazine. He glanced at Helena and she saw his eyes widen but then he looked
back at his magazine.
She walked towards him and stood in front of the counter as he studied the magazine
without showing any sign that he knew she was there. The magazine was pornographic; a
picture of a naked black girl lying back on a tartan rug, opening her legs to a white,
straw haired male whose penis was erect.
With icy courtesy she introduced herself.
“I am Lady Helena de Barrie. I have an appointment with a Mr. Marcus.”
He looked at her and she caught a slew of bad breath. Then, after a moment of
looking her over with insulting frankness, he picked up the telephone and spoke into it.
“A blonde bint’s ‘ere. Very tasty if yer like ‘em a bit older.”
Helena swung away from the counter, infuriated at the comment.
“Upstairs!” the man grunted, replacing the receiver. “Fourth floor.”
She compressed her lips and walked towards the lift. Inside she pressed the button
for the fourth floor. As the lift ascended she considered the difficulty of her
position.
Helena de Barrie had been born into a comfortable and loving middle class family
nearly thirty-six years before. She had been educated at a reasonable but secondary public
school and proceeded from there to a modest finishing school. On leaving she had gone
straight into modelling. At 5’8', slender, blonde and attractive she had made a moderately
successful living though she had never reached anywhere near supermodel status. A rather
shy, modest girl she refused to divest herself of her bra, never mind the rest of her
clothes and this had certainly constrained her earnings in a vibrantly extrovert
profession. She had been bracketed as a model for up-market roles, which were quite
prestigious but not hugely well paid. Nevertheless she had made a satisfactory living and
was able to buy a small flat in London. Her parents had died when she was in her early
twenties and as she was neither hugely sociable nor very interested in men, she tended to
live a quiet and tranquil life. That did not distress her; she was by nature something of
a loner. She did embark on a few affairs but found them disappointing. Men found her cold
and she found them crude. A woman with natural grace and dignity she felt that, for a
woman, sex was demeaning. Opening her legs and allowing a man to spurt his body liquids
into her seemed aesthetically disgusting and personally humiliating.
Just before her twenty-eighth birthday, Helena had met Sir James de Barrie. It was
an unusual courtship. Sir James, in his early fifties, was already very rich and well on
his way to mega riches. He had decided that he needed a wife. The problem was that Sir
James was a discreet homosexual. Though it was never spelled out during the somewhat aloof
courtship. Helena was shrewd enough to realise the truth when he never tried to touch her
sexually. Basically he offered a simple bargain. Marry him and become one of the most
pampered women in the world. A lifestyle which few of the six billion-world population
could equal. But no sex, no affairs and absolute discretion at all times.
Helena was understandably dazzled and felt that she could achieve all the sex she
needed - which was not much - with her own fingers. She accepted and they were married
very soon afterwards. Naturally she had to give up her modelling career, which she did
with little regret.
Helena moved into a new lifestyle, which was glamorous, luxurious and high profile.
She had the use of splendid apartments and houses in the most fashionable places of the
world, all fully staffed and maintained. She travelled by chauffeur driven car, private
jet and private yacht as a matter of routine. She had an army of domestic servants all
over the world, which ostensibly she controlled directly, though in fact Sir James had
created a highly competent secretariat to aid her. Charity work was expected of her and
she was the Chairwoman or Patron of fourteen such organisations ranging from child
protection to the rehabilitation of fallen women. From the obscurity of her pre-married
life she became a well publicised society hostess, famous for the soirees and dinner
parties that she and her husband gave. Her natural prettiness was enhanced by every
artifice available on the market. Her grooming was always impeccable; the top designers
dressed her and the leading stylists maintained her soft golden hair. One of the best
known of perfume companies had even produced a special, hugely expensive, perfume called
after her, ‘Helena’. In short, she was an icon of Society.
Yet with the world apparently at her fingertips, Lady Helena de Barrie had
ultimately experienced a sense of dissatisfaction. She had never been a rebellious
individual and in most ways the calm, well ordered, luxurious life, which she led was well
suited to her personality. She was poised and beautiful but never overly obtrusive. In a
sense she was just like an actress on a stage or a model showing off beautiful clothing.
Behind the glittering facade there was little achievement of her own. The ultimate
management of her life lay in the hands of Sir James. And she was intelligent enough to
both understand and resent it.
Her husband awed and even frightened her. She heard the rumours about his
ruthlessness in business and she knew that he would be a dangerous man to cross. With her
he was usually calm and courteous though always aloof. Very occasionally he would explode
into tempestuous rages, which were often triggered by seemingly minor matters. She thought
it likely that his mental stability was fragile in spite of the sternly controlled image
that he presented to the world. He never allowed his homosexuality to show when he was
with her but he was frequently away on business and she guessed that he slaked his need on
those occasions. She did not allow such thoughts to worry her and his sexual tastes
remained a secret from all but those closest to him.
Helena always comported herself with great dignity but she inevitably attracted the
attention of men. She became expert in fending them off by showing disdain at their
approaches. Her brilliant aquamarine eyes could turn icy in such circumstances.
Perhaps inevitably, she began to chafe under the burden of always having to act a
part in someone else’s play. The role of ‘Great Lady’ began to pall.
The trigger that turned thought into action had occurred two months previously.
Seeking her husband on some minor matter, she had walked into his office within
their house in Knightsbridge and had come upon a scene which had stopped her dead in her
tracks.
One of the male secretaries employed by Sir James had been sprawled nude across a
large desk and was being slowly but thoroughly buggered by her equally naked husband. It
was the very first time that she had ever seen her husband nude. She had clapped a
horrified hand to her mouth and stared almost uncomprehendingly at the obscene tableau.
Sir James had turned a terrible gaze towards her but continued his thrusts into the
distended anus of the panting secretary. For a few seconds husband and wife locked eyes
with each other, then Helena panicked and fled from the room. She went immediately to her
suite - she and Sir James had always had separate accommodation - sat down and pondered on
what she had seen.
She was not, of course, surprised that Sir James was homosexual. And she had long
ago realised that his secretaries, servants and attendants were usually young males. But
such a grotesque scene could hardly be overlooked. She was confused about what she should
do - what action she should take?
*****
An hour or so later, unbidden, Sir James had walked into her suite. He was fully
clothed and had obviously showered. There was a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
“If you ever enter my office again without my express permission, you will be a
very sorry woman!” he had said without preamble.
She had been angry and showed it for the first time ever during their marriage.
“How dare you use - a - a - catamite in my house!” she flared.
“My house, lady. You’re nothing but an expensively purchased decoration in it.
Remember your place - always.”
“My place is - as your wife.”
“You delude yourself,” he sneered. “Listen. If I wished I could send for men who’d
strip you of your baubles and your expensive pieces of cloth and then you’d be the same as
the other three billion women in the world. Two tits, two holes and a mouth. And if I
encouraged them to make use of those very common attributes they’d do it as they would
with any other whore. And no one in this house would interfere.”
Tears started in her eyes at the crudity of his words.
“You wouldn’t dare. My lawyers would have you in court within hours.”
“When my men had finished with you, you wouldn’t be around to complain. I’ve told
you before that I won’t tolerate scandals.”
She had bitten her lip at the open threat and then dropped her eyes.
His voice had softened.
“All right. It’s all been said now. But please be more discreet in future. You have
a good life - enjoy it and don’t poke your nose into things that don’t concern you.”
He had left her seething with inner rage. She had no doubt that what he had said
was what he believed. And it was factually true. She was no more than an ornament!
Her self-esteem had been badly damaged and she was furious. The old proverb about
Geese and Ganders had shot through her mind.
Despite having no real taste for sex she had recklessly embarked on an affair. The
whole thing had been a whim, it had hardly been very enjoyable and ultimately it had been
a disaster. Her chosen lover was named Hugo Montford who was fairly rich, reasonably
handsome, occasionally amusing - and more than willing.
Once she had decided to betray her widely feared husband she realised that her high
social profile was a major disadvantage. She needed a wholly trusty and very discreet
accomplice. She fixed on a friend of several years named Tamara Joslyn. Tamara was a woman
in her late twenties who hovered on the fringes of Society and was bound closely to Helena
who played the role of her mentor. Tamara served on several of the charity committees,
which Helena chaired and was an unusually enthusiastic worker. Moreover she was devoted to
Helena who found her always helpful and well meaning. The friendship had become quite
warm.
Tamara was not rich though she seemed comfortable enough. She had a small, one
bedroom flat in Chelsea and had cheerfully agreed to let Helena and Hugo use it for
assignations.
The whole thing had been ill fated from the start. Hugo liked the idea of bedding
Lady Helena de Barrie but he was not a very expert lover and since Helena herself was a
virtual novice neither had the drive or talent to really ignite the affair. They went
through the motions with a sort of mechanistic boredom that lasted for no more than two
meetings; then Helena had abruptly come to her senses and called the affair off. Hugo had
not argued and she suspected that he was secretly perfectly happy that it was over.
*****
The shock had occurred a couple of weeks later. A package had been hand delivered
to Helena and when she had opened it her eyes had flared in horror and disbelief. There
were four large photographs enclosed and they showed Helena and Hugo, naked, in what were
clearly compromising circumstances. A short note attached told her to come to a north
London address the following day at 12.am. If she failed to appear then the photographs
would immediately be sent to Sir James.
Helena had studied the photographs with increasing alarm. They had undoubtedly been
taken in the flat of Tamara Joslyn. Nor was their any doubt as to their authenticity. One
photo showed Hugo actually entering her, the condom glinting wetly as he did so. Another
photo showed her smiling - a little uncertainly but smiling nevertheless - slightly open
mouthed and only inches away from his penis. In fact she had not fellated him - the very
thought of sucking a man turned her stomach - but the photograph indicated a different
story. It looked as if she was bending towards him with the aim of taking his penis in her
mouth. Another shot showed him bestriding her buttocks and again she almost fainted as she
realised that he looked as if he was about to enter her anus. The last shot showed them
lying on the bed with smiles on their faces. There was no indication of the truth - that
she had been smiling because the whole damned embarrassing episode was over.
There was no doubt how anybody viewing those photographs would regard them. Two
people having uninhibited sex.
She had picked up the telephone and rang Tamara Joslyn’s number but there was no
reply. Then she had telephoned Hugo. His housekeeper told her that he had departed on a
private yacht cruise with some friends two days previously. There was no way to contact
him.
Frantically she considered the matter afresh. She could tell her husband the truth
and defy his inevitable anger. What she had done was no worse - no, it was far less awful
- that what he had done! But she dismissed that thought immediately. Sir James would not
even consider the comparison; he had already made his position clear. She was a
possession. Possessions had to be flawless.
Suddenly she had become dreadfully afraid. Sir James had threatened her with
disappearance just because she had caught him in an embarrassing position. What would he
do when she was the transgressor?
After much thought, she composed herself. The only solution was to pay the
blackmailers off. Helena did not have huge amounts of cash in her rarely used personal
account - her usual shopping cheques were drawn on a company account - but it should be
enough. Also she had plenty of jewellery, some of which could be discreetly sold if
necessary.
That evening Helena took a taxi to Tamara’s flat but there was nobody there. She
telephoned several times later that night and the following morning, without getting an
answer.
Thus, with no reasonable alternative she had come to keep the appointment.
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