by Alice Ross
*
‘Vell?’ demanded Anya.
Mr and Mrs Tomlinson – a small, nervy, unassuming couple in their mid-seventies, to whom anything remotely resembling confrontation was complete anathema - were all of a quiver. They’d really wanted to see James but had been informed by Mandy when telephoning the surgery, that he’d been called out to a local farm and wouldn’t be back that afternoon. As they were leaving for their annual fortnight in Brighton the next day, they’d therefore been left with no other option but to see the formidable Anya, who, during their last visit, had been so terrifying that poor Mrs Tomlinson hadn’t slept for the following three nights. Now, as Anya glared at them through narrowed green eyes accentuated by thick black liner, Mrs Tomlinson had the distinct feeling that, despite the Brighton sea air, a repetition of the sleeplessness episode would most likely reoccur.
Mr Tomlinson cleared his throat. ‘Well, Miss von Hutterhausen, it’s just that she’s got a touch of the …,’ he paused, a deep flush staining his cheeks. ‘A touch of the, er, … you know.’
Anya’s intimidating gaze shifted to Twinkle, the huge white rabbit in the middle of the stainless-steel operating table.
‘Indeed I do not know,’ she snapped, her voice, tinged with its guttural German accent, climbing several octaves. ‘How can I know if you are not telling me? Are you expecting the rabbit to tell me? Ja? Is that it? Vell, I am telling you that I vish the rabbit could tell me. I vish all the animals could be telling me. Because then, ja, mein job would be two-hundred times easier than having to deal vith the animal owners.’
A petrified Mrs Tomlinson grabbed her husband’s arm.
Mr Tomlinson swallowed hard and made a second attempt at explanation. ‘Well, she seems to have a touch of the, um …. from her back end.’
Anya took a step towards the table.
Mr and Mrs Tomlinson took a step back.
‘Ugh! You English,’ she growled, running a hand through her razor-sharp, black bob, which always put Mr Tomlinson in mind of a German war helmet. ‘Alvays you are toe-tipping around matters. In Germany we do not toe-tip. Now, you should be saying to me, “Miss von Hutterhausen, mein rabbit has a case of the diaho-”’
At that precise moment all eyes shifted to Twinkle, who, evidently having enough of the conversation, decided the best way to explain the problem was to provide a demonstration – all over Anya’s gleaming table.
Anya von Hutterhausen had frankly had enough. Enough of her job, enough of Little Crumpton, enough of animals peeing (or worse) all over her table, and more than enough of dithering clients like the Tomlinsons who, after that unfortunate incident, had scooped up Twinkle and fled the surgery without a word. No, what Anya needed was a complete change, a new challenge. She’d never been happy being a vet. She didn’t even like animals. Quite why she’d chosen that particular career path was now beyond her. Apart from being so ridiculously naive that she’d imagined she might make pots of money. Hah! What a joke! When she’d moved to England four years ago and bought into the practice with James, she’d considered it a potential goldmine. With the English being so dotty about their animals, and the practice being the only one around for several miles in affluent Buckinghamshire, how could it possibly fail? But tin-pot mine more accurately described it. When she and James had first taken over, she’d had plans, big plans – for expansion and marketing and branching out into other areas. But James hadn’t been interested; wasn’t interested in anything other than keeping the business exactly as it had always been. It was all so damned… traditional. Why she’d stayed so long, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she had any friends. There was nobody around she gelled with – which actually wasn’t unusual. In all her thirty-three years Anya had never gelled with anybody – not at school, not at uni, not at work, not in Germany and not in England. But in Little Crumpton there wasn’t even anybody she had a thing in common with. Apart from Jakov. And that was just sex. Actually, it wasn’t just sex. It was the most multiple-orgasmic, mind-blowing, explosive, toe-curling, spine-tingling sex she’d ever had. Even after having it twice a day for the past two years she still couldn’t get enough. She was addicted.
A fitness fanatic, whose muscular body was a definite temple, Anya had met Jakov at Jacksons Gym in town. He was the manager there; six-foot four-inches of pure Croatian undiluted testosterone and rippling, waxed, Balkan brawn. The first time she’d set eyes on him he was fresh from the swimming pool: shimmering rivulets of water running down his perfect bronzed form, tight black trunks leaving little doubt as to the rest of his impressive attributes. From the bubbling Jacuzzi, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Nor, indeed, could the rest of the female contingent.
‘Phwoar!’ one of her Jacuzzi-sharers sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of private sessions with him sometime.’
Amidst much female cackling – an activity of which Anya had never been fond and had never partaken – the other three females had agreed. As, indeed, had a silent Anya. But while their banter was purely hypothetical, her thoughts were not. She had a strong presentiment that Jakov Igrec could be just what she needed to brighten up her days in dreary old England. So she devised a plan, beginning with Phase One – Preparation. The following morning she booked two weeks of daily one-to-one sessions with Jakov. Before her first session, she spent days scouring shops and websites for the sexiest, most revealing pieces of lycra she could find to display her toned form. A full day at the spa followed, where she was plucked, pampered and preened to within an inch of her life. Then came Phase Two – Implementation. It had proved as easy as taking candy from a baby. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Of course Anya knew that what she had with Jakov wasn’t what most people would consider A Proper Relationship. Anya wasn’t interested in Proper Relationships. She’d never had one. She did, however, suspect Jakov of having A Proper Relationship with Imogen, the Pilates instructor. She’d seen them once in town on a Saturday afternoon, holding hands. Not that she’d bothered questioning him about it. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to hold Jakov’s hand in town on a Saturday afternoon – or any afternoon. She wasn’t interested in how he spent his time when he wasn’t with her. Why would she when they had no shared interests? Anya liked Mozart, Moet and Milton. Jakov liked Liverpool FC, lager and lads’ mags. They rarely even had Proper Conversations. The only thing they shared was sex; lots of sex. Any chance they got – which, for the last two years had been every morning following six-thirty spin class and every evening following seven-thirty body-pump. Thursday evenings though, which, Anya had noticed, happened to be the evening Imogen instructed three consecutive Pilates classes, were the best. On Thursday evenings they indulged in something a shade more … titillating. And today was Thursday. Even clearing up the mess left by Twinkle Tomlinson could not prevent a frisson of excitement slivering down Anya’s spine. But this Thursday it wasn’t just sexual anticipation that had her juices flowing. Just as she’d constructed and implemented a perfect plan when she’d wanted Jakov, she now had another goal in her sights – and another plan to achieve it. Phase One – Preparation, was almost complete. Tonight she just needed to squeeze a teeny-weeny bit more information from Jakov and then she could move on to Phase Two - Implementation. And there was no one more determined than Anya von Hutterhausen when she was in Implementation phase.
*
At a cramped table in the corner of Raffaellas that evening, wedged between a vicious yucca plant with razor-sharp leaves, and the gents’ toilet, Matt was not smiling. In fact, the prices on the menu were almost bringing a tear to his eye. What a bloody rip-off. You might as well hand over your wallet as soon as you entered the place and have done with it. It wasn’t even as if any of the “authentic” dishes he’d spotted so far looked appetising or authentic. Francesca, on the other hand, looked positively delicious in a black cat-suit unzipped just enough to reveal a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, taking her hand across
the table and brushing his lips against it.
She jerked it away and continued to study the menu. ‘I’ll have a plain salad,’ she huffed, before putting it down and crossing her arms.
Matt sighed. After all the effort he’d gone to making – and paying – for the reservation, and issuing the taxi company with specific instructions that only on pain of death should the driver breathe a word of their destination, his surprise did not appear to be having the desired effect. Even when the cab had pulled up outside the restaurant she’d remained frosty-faced.
‘Surprised, babe?’ he’d asked.
She’d merely shrugged.
Frustration mounting, Matt had resisted the urge to inform her that the evening had already cost him three-hundred quid and that was before they’d set foot in the place. Hopefully the ice would thaw once she was inside and spotted some celebs. But all celebs – even those languishing in E Class – were sadly lacking that evening, and Francesca remained as frosty as ever.
Just as he wondered if the evening could get any worse, the smarmy waiter who’d swindled the three-hundred pounds out of him earlier “to secure their reservation”, arrived at the table to take their order. He winked at Matt. Matt ignored the gesture. He had a strong suspicion that he’d been taken for a ride: that the boss had the night off and this creep, with his slicked-back hair, had spotted an opportunity to make a few quid by shoving this poxy table in the corner. Avoiding eye contact with the man, he imparted their order in a brisk fashion then, as soon as the waiter scuttled off, turned his attention back to Francesca.
‘Look, Fran, I really think we need to have a serious talk, don’t you?’
She didn’t look at him, her smoky eyes focussed on the ridiculously expensive diamond rock masquerading as her engagement ring.
‘What about?’ she huffed.
He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Well, about us. You know … money … our future.’
Again she said nothing, fiddling with the diamond. The activity did not help his frayed nerves at all. He leaned forward and clasped her hands in his. ‘Look, I haven’t said anything yet, what with the wedding and all, but my job is-’
‘My agent’s sacked me,’ she cut in. ‘Said I was too fat for fashion work and that I should either stick with glamour or have a boob reduction.’
Matt shot back in his chair. Shit! Where had that come from? Talk about a curve ball. He’d known she hadn’t worked much recently but he hadn’t expected that. She wouldn’t bring in a bean until another agency signed her. If another agency signed her. And if he lost his job too …. God – it didn’t bear thinking about. But in a flash his rising panic sailed away on a tide of relief. They had a lifeline: Great Aunt Milly’s will. Surely now she would at least consider having a baby because, if she didn’t, they’d be up the creek and heading for the ocean, without a solitary paddle in sight.
*
In her apartment Anya von Hutterhausen could scarcely contain herself as she examined the contents of the newly-delivered parcel: red PVC hot-pants, thigh-length boots, a tassel whip, and a pair of fluffy handcuffs. Jakov was going to be a very happy man, she concluded. So happy, she’d have no problem at all extracting the information she needed from him …
Three hours later, in a bubble bath, sipping Moet and listening to Mozart, Anya congratulated herself on a job well done. Her plan thus far, had gone swimmingly. Jakov couldn’t keep his hands off her as she’d strutted her stuff in the hot-pants and boots. And the whip, too, had gone down a treat. But the best part of the evening had been the completion of her Preparation Phase. Thanks to her new titillating acquisitions, she now had all the necessary information to progress her plan. As her favourite, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik blasted through the speakers, she ran over the facts:
In twelve months, the owner of Jacksons would be selling his six local gyms and retiring to Tenerife. Due to a few dodgy dealings and the odd tax fiddle, he wanted no banks involved in the sale, nor did he want anyone asking too many questions. The gyms though, oozed potential. And Anya was just the woman to nurture it, to grow and expand the business so that, in five years, a national chain would buy her out. The small fortune they’d hand over for this privilege would allow her to buy a fabulous villa in the south of France, employ a squad of servants, and not look at another animal intestine for as long as she lived.
She knocked back another slug of Moet. Ja, life was going to be good. The only slight fly in the ointment was how to raise the cash for the business. She had some investments but they were hardly worth the paper they were written on. And she had her share of the practice. But all that combined amounted to peanuts compared to Doug Jackson’s asking price. He wanted one million pounds – cash. And there was only one person Anya knew who could get their hands on that kind of money - James Pinkerton.
Of course, James didn’t actually have one million pounds, but he could have. If he carried out the terms of his mad-old-bat-of-a-relative’s will. All Anya had to do was marry him and have a kid. For lesser mortals, that might seem an insurmountable problem. But not for Anya von Hutterhausen. She already had in place the exact sequence of events which would overcome that obstacle:
She would get pregnant – not too challenging an objective given how often she and Jakov had sex.
She would seduce James. Just once would be all she needed or, indeed, wanted - given she didn’t find him the least bit attractive.
She would inform James she was pregnant with his child and James being so English would feel guilty enough to ask her to marry him.
She would tie the knot with James and pop out the kid.
The lovely money would come their way and she’d persuade James, who wouldn’t have a clue what to do with it, to give it to her to buy Jacksons Gyms.
She would divorce James – details of why and when still to be arranged – and bugger off to la belle France.
Perfekt!
But there were, unfortunately, a couple of minor issues to deal with:
Firstly, the fact that James’ brother’s wedding appeared imminent. This required a little more research but, given the brother was a red-blooded male, she already had the inkling of a plan to deal with that issue.
The second issue involved the unavoidable consequence of pregnancy i.e. having a baby. A complete bore given Anya didn’t have the remotest interest in anyone under the age of twenty-five. But this was, in the greater scheme, a small inconvenience. People created far too much fuss about children these days. Having a child hadn’t made the slightest difference to her parents’ lives. She’d been brought up by au-pairs until she was five, then shipped off to boarding school until eighteen. She hadn’t really seen her parents. Even in school holidays they’d rarely been around. She’d made no difference to their lives, and they’d made no difference to hers. She was living proof that all the hype regarding parental bonding and children needing quality time with their parents was nonsense. She’d had neither attention nor affection from her parents and hadn’t she turned out a perfectly well-balanced young woman?
Chapter 5
James pulled his crumpled White Stripes T-shirt from the drawer. He’d bought it at Glastonbury over a decade ago. Part of the logo had long since peeled off but he still loved it, plus it was the perfect accompaniment to his faded, genuinely-ripped-at-the-knee jeans. That was the beauty of going to friends like Mandy and Eric’s for supper, he mused, yanking the T-shirt over his head. No sartorial snobbery. Nobody gave a toss what you wore. It was all so relaxed, all about excellent company, good conversation, Mandy’s fantastic cooking and, of course, one or two alcoholic beverages.
Mandy had first invited him to supper during his second week in Little Crumpton. She’d rattled up chicken fajitas followed by the most exquisite chocolate mousse James had ever tasted. But it wasn’t just the food that had made the evening such a success. He’d immediately bonded with Mandy’s fiancé, Eric, and the three of them had had such an enjoyable night that their supper evenings quickly d
eveloped into a regular event. He ran his fingers through his hair – still wet from the shower - hurtled down the stairs, scooped up the carrier bag containing the two bottles of Chablis he’d purchased earlier, and headed out the front door.
Mandy and Eric lived half a mile outside Little Crumpton in one of the old worker’s cottages in the grounds of Eric’s parents’ farm.
‘Evening, James,’ beamed Eric, throwing open the door to their guest. ‘Arrived safely with no trouble from Gadaffi-ella this evening?’
‘Thankfully not,’ chuckled James, recalling an interesting altercation with Gabriella, the infamous goose, last time he’d crossed the farmyard. ‘How is she?’
‘No change,’ informed Eric stoutly. ‘Still picking up hints from middle-eastern terrorist organisations and attacking anything that moves. Mandy’s in the kitchen. Come on through.’
James followed his host into the delightful living room with its warm cream walls and sanded floorboards. The room never failed to intrigue him. Despite nothing matching and being crammed with clutter, it always looked so artlessly perfect. He couldn’t figure out if it was Mandy’s extraordinary eye for interior design or pure coincidence that the Ikea mirror over the original cast-iron fireplace looked as if it had always been there. Or if the two rickety old sofas swathed in gingham throws and strewn with sequinned cushions were expertly staged or just looked like they were. He suspected the latter rather than the former, but with this pair, who knew? Whoever would have imagined, for instance, that farm-lad Eric had, since the age of eighteen, been making a small fortune playing the stock-market on the computer in the spare bedroom?
