The Boleyn Effect (The Boleyn Ending)

by Deborah. C. Foulkes

  'It's like there's a herd of elephants in there,' she moans.

  'Well it looks like it's a quiet one today. You can go home once we're done,' I offer.

  'Have we any kids in?' she asks.

  'Two separate families with only one child each, so I wouldn't worry about that. Have you heard anything from the uni about the graduation gig?'

  Clair sits down at the desk and fires up the desktop.

  'I'll check the emails.'

  I leave her to get on and grabbing my own coffee start to organise my equipment. The University can pay a photographer a fortune if they are picked for the graduation and their official one passed away. This left all the local photographers scrambling to get the gig, myself included. Now I'm waiting for the call, because if I get it I'll be set up for years. But for now, I have to make do with my regulars. My first client is due in the half hour and that's enough time for me to get set up and most importantly allow the caffeine to work.

  I rent out two floors of a three story Victorian town house and I've tried to keep the original features where I can. The ground floor is rented by some new age witch who sells magic spells and other tat that I've no interest in. She's nice enough and even offered some blessing when I moved in to the other two floors. She even allows me to put signage up to direct them to the side door that leads to my studios entrance. It's not the most appealing having to walk through a dark brick tunnel come alley way, but I can't complain about the footfall.

  On my level the walls are stripped back to bare brick and covered in my own prints to advertise and sell to customers. There is a small narrow walkway that opens up into a small entrance, come waiting area and in there is a small cast iron fireplace, which I actually love.

  Then there is the open area that is my studio with practical, but soft carpet. In here is where I create my magic and also doubles up in one corner as Clair's domain and office. Finally, my own tiny broom cupboard of an office sits in the far corner and because of its size I'm barely in it. Much to Clair's frustration.

  'My desk is not your personal overflow system,' she always moans.

  The second floor is where I live. The flat that I've made home and can be accessed by some narrow stairs. It has its advantages, but sometimes I wish I could close the door on the studio and go home. Instead, work and home are mingled. Not that I should complain.

  The flat is a nice size with a good sized bedroom and living room. Filled with my own personal tastes, it's actually the first home where I've lived alone. A big step for me, but I'm glad I did it. But this was achieved though George and yet another chalk mark added.

  CHAPTER THREE

  'I know how we are going to do this.'

  'Do you mind if I come in first?'

  George moves to one side so that I can enter his room. He lives on the university campus and has a pretty decent room compared to some. It even has an en-suite. Having Pops on the board really helps I guess, not that I'd ever say that to him. I notice that George is wearing a shirt and tie which means only one thing.

  Now George is a very controlled man, but he also likes to be looked after. Everything has its place and things have to be done in a certain way. This can be draining, especially as I'm so chaotic. He wears good expensive clothes, but nothing chav as he would call it.

  'This is chav,' he would say going through my wardrobe. 'Try dressing with some class. If I had my way this would all be gone and you'd dress like a woman.'

  But my argument is that he can afford to and I can't. My money has to go elsewhere not on my wardrobe. But he does like his mum, me and even Clair to run-around after him.

  'Is your father coming?'

  'Is it that obvious?' he asks.

  'Just a tad.'

  Sitting down, I give him a knowing smile. Gaskill is some high flying lawyer and is the bane of George's life. The Gaskill family is real big family where law and finance are merged into one empire. Of course I am the distraction that Gaskill hates. The reason George has not joined the family business. Of course anyone who knows George knows that he does exactly what he wants. But he already looks defeated and the man is not even here yet. The epic battle of wills between father and son is an on-going one and usually George loses one way or another.

  'So there is some charity event going on at the end of the week and Harry Cobain is going to be there. So will you be my plus one?' George asks sitting beside me.

  'Is that why your father is visiting?'

  'Who knows? Look, it will be an excellent opportunity for you to get noticed without it being obvious.'

  'Have you even considered in this great master plan the possibility that he may not even like me?' I ask.

  George gives me one of his incredulous looks, like I've just said something stupid.

  'I've ordered you a dress for the night. All you have to do is flutter those eyelashes and show some cleavage and you'll have him. The man loves his women.'

  'So I hear,' I mutter. 'And his wife? Does she know?'

  'Know what?'

  'What we are doing?'

  'Leave that to me. Trust me,' George smiles.

  The door swinging open makes us both stand. Gaskill steps into the room and the temperature drops a couple of degrees. Standing there in a charcoal coloured suit and short greying hair is the man who hates me. The Head of the Gaskill Empire. George Thomas Gaskill.

  Even though he's a man in his late forties it's still obvious that the man played rugby during his college years. But instead of comforting, the size feels intimidating, because I'm aware that it's something that Gaskill likes to use as a weapon against us meagre plebs.

  'Miss Boorman,' he manages to say with little civility. 'I trust you are well.'

  'Yes Mr. Gaskill,' I answer.

  'George, I was hoping we could have a chat.'

  That's it. The formalities are over and giving me a will you fuck off glare I catch the hint. Plus, I don't really want to sit here and watch my best friend belittled and bullied any more then I need to. Grabbing my jacket, I reach for the door just as George takes my arm and pulls me towards him.

  'This won't take long. Meet me at The Hole. Get the drinks in and we'll chat some more.'

  'Ok, I will and George, don't take any shit from him,' I whisper.

  Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I catch the glower from Gaskill and as the door closes I manage to just hear Gaskill telling his son that I'm more trouble then I'm worth. That doesn't bother me. George will defend me to the hilt, but what bothers me is the fact that Gaskill has never bothered to even get to know me.

  I know that the family is loaded and I get that, but I don't give a flying fuck about the money and the mere fact that I won't allow George to get me into bed must be proof of that. But no! I am just trouble.

  I wander down to the student bar, affectionately known as The Hole. It's one place I hate going, especially on my own. It's as though I have I don't belong here written on my forehead. The bar is filled with the usual student types from the regular moshers, dressed in leather and black to the geeks who wear shirts and ties.

  The walls are littered with famous quotes and sayings reminding the punters where the bar is housed. I get the usual stares from passerbys who are trying to work out what class I'm in and why I'm sitting with two Jack D's in front of me.

  Deciding to deflect the fact that I'm some saddo alone, I pull out my phone and start to amuse myself with Angry Birds. I give it ten more minutes before George comes slamming his way in with a face like thunder. He can't cope with father dearest any longer than that.

  'Hey! You called Leigh?'

  Sighing, I shift my glaze from the phone to some Robert Pattinson wannabe who's staring down at me. I hope to god this isn't some chat up line, because he looks like he spends far too much time looking at himself in the mirror. Plus the floppy hair thing does very little for my libido.

  'I've a message from George. He says dad is being a dick. The dress will be at yours tomorrow. He'll call you later.' />
  'Is that it?'

  Floppy hair shrugs and I catch him eying up the spare drink. Answering his question, I drink them both and get up. That is not going to happen. The quicker I leave this place the better I'll feel. As I step outside I consider sending George a reassuring text, but decide against it. He'll call when he's ready, plus I can never deal with him when he's in post father mood.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I look myself over in the full length mirror and can't help but be impressed. Four hours of preening has resulted in this image of seductive perfection. It should be a little disconcerting that George has picked the prefect dress and even instructed what underwear I should put on.

  This is one of the many reasons I won't become George's. A man who dictates what underwear a woman wears is not a good thing. Sure for a bit of fun, but not constantly. But, I hate to admit he just seems to know what looks good and tonight it's a floor length, red Grecian number, plus, thanks to George's instructions there is no sign of a panty line anywhere. I could be naked under here.

  I've also been given strict orders on how to wear my hair. It hangs long and in loose curls down my back with tiny clips holding it in place. I'm sure I will meet with some approval from the big wigs that will be there. Considering most of my outfits are either too short or too loud. I'm more of a clubber then posh cocktails girl. Even my shoes have been picked to be more elegant then my usual Shag Shoes.

  'How much longer?'

  I smile at George's whine from outside my bedroom. He's not the most patient man. A Gaskill trait so I'm led to believe. But if he wants perfection then he's going to have to wait that little bit longer. I've continued to push him on whether what we are doing is wife approved and as usual his answers are evasive.

  'I told you to leave it to me,' he snapped. 'Trust me, she wants out.'

  But I would rather hear it from her own mouth. I am not into husband stealing. It's just not my thing. Meaningless flirting is one thing, but this is on another level entirely. This is love. A much stronger emotion with dangerous consequences. Deep down, I kind of hope that all this effort will be a waste, then at least, it's not my fault when nothing happens.

  Finally, with a spritz of my favourite perfume, I open the door and step out, and there it is. The effect I was very much hoping for. The good ole fish out of water look.

  'Wow!' he says.

  'Will I do?' I ask coyly.

  'As if you need me to answer that,' he grins. 'Come on, we're already late.'

  A short walk later, we enter the university grounds outside some old chapel that has obviously been converted. There are fairy lights everywhere lining a walkway to the entrance. I'm holding him by the crook of his arm. He's a real gentleman and we must look like a handsome couple, especially as he looks very sexy in his tux. That I can appreciate as can any passing female.

  With his short clipped brown hair and green eyes, he's beautiful to look at. I just wish I could feel differently about him. I mean, what sort of girl would not want to marry her best friend. He would give me everything. He already has, many times.

  'You okay?' he asks.

  I nod mutely at him, because I don't want to ruin the illusion of confidence with a shaky voice. Even if I wasn't parading myself for some guy's benefit, these things make me nervous. Smiling, he gives me a small squeeze and with a hand on my hip leads me inside where my victim lies in wait.

  As we wait in the foyer a woman of my age dressed in black cocktail dress bounds up with too much enthusiasm. Of course it's due to George, because she has barely noticed me. George gives our names and she ticks something on her clipboard.

  'Help yourselves to the free bar,' she chimes.

  'Free bar?'

  'Knew that would cheer you up,' he smiles.

  He pulls me into a small corner just outside where people are mingling and draws me closer. The girl who greeted us scowls our way and I realise we must look very much like a couple with George's hand just about decently placed. I don't bother to move it away, because he knows the boundaries.

  Don't worry girlfriend. He'll come and find you if he's interested. He always does.

  'We need to go over first rules.'

  'First rules?'

  George sighs as he rolls his eyes at me.

  'You've got to catch his attention first, before we get to the other rules. Now it's all about playing the game. He's going to expect you to fall at his feet. Don't! Make him aware of you, but play it cool. He's not used to not getting what he wants. Are you getting this?'

  'What exactly is your thesis again?' I ask.

  Looking down at me exasperated, he sighs. I like to play stupid and difficult sometimes, just to get on his nerves. It’s my only amusement.

  'You know you don't have to do this. I can get someone else. It's just a case study.'

  'You need to chill out more. You'll turn into your father,' I smirk.

  George shakes his head as he leads me inside to the function room.

  'And you are nothing but trouble,' he murmurs.

  I wish I'd brought my camera the architecture inside is beautiful. Even with the white drapes that hang from the ceiling and the pillars, the old features still stand out. It always fascinates me that something so old can still dominate and outshine what’s modern. There are linen covered circular tables where some people are sitting and talking. Each table holds an elaborate flowered centrepiece that would cost us mere mortals a small fortune. But my eye is soon caught. In one corner is the bar where I can't wait to head to. I need something to calm my insides.

  The place is full of money and status and I've already spied the Gaskills talking, which makes me feel worse. Of course there are posters and campaign banners for the charity of choice and I see that it's for Macmillan Nurses. I'm impressed. I expected some rainforest or polar bear thing. Something for the rich people to preach about and throw money at, while draining the natural resources that threaten those very same things.

  'Fancy saying hello?' George smirks.

  'I'd rather you got me a drink,' I answer.

  My insides are twisting and turning with nerves. This is definitely out my comfort zone. These charity events are where all those with cash make themselves feel good by donating something while making those ever important contacts. It's a fake world in my opinion, but it's also the world where George has grown up and to him this is normal. That I have to remember and he's not like them. He's not the bad guy. Plus, it's not all about me. He mixes in my circles and I must do the same. Soon, he returns with two flutes of champagne.

  'Right, where is that womanizing bastard...what?!' he asks looking down at my shocked face. 'I'm just saying,' he mutters.

  The night continues to draw on and there seems to be no sign of this Harry Cobain much to both George and mines annoyance. I've already downed plenty of champagne, which is never a good thing in my case. We've taken part in the overpriced raffle where I won some expensive pamper goodies and of course we've been unable to avoid the Gaskills.

  'That dress looks expensive,' Gaskill sneers.

  'It was,' I answer smartly.

  'Well I think the colour suits you,' Mary offers.

  Mary Gaskill is George's stepmother, but she is the only mother he's ever known. When it comes to his real mother it's an off limits topic. Even with me. Compared to her husband, she’s always kind to me. Well to my face anyway. She's never looked down her nose at me, but I wonder sometimes whether the reason is purely so she doesn't lose George. She's by no means stupid and knows how to get what she wants in a less aggressive way. But still my blood pressure rises being around them. I hate the way I'm looked down upon. Excusing myself, I move away.

  'Hey, where are you going?' George asks.

  'I need some air and it's very clear that he's not here,' I snap.

  George raises his hands in defeat and lets me go. He knows better than to argue or follow. We are both as hot-headed as the other and know the limits well enough. Plus, my ego is taking one hell of a b
attering. I am all trussed up for no-one's benefit.

  I stomp outside and leaning against the wall I allow my temper to cool. The night air causes me to shiver and curse the fact I didn't bring a Shrug or anything.

  Now in the night air, I realise that this might be a blessing. After all, if there's no meeting with Harry Cobain then there will be no challenge to win and I won’t have to fight not to become the next Mrs. Gaskill, gold-digger extraordinaire. So what, I won't get the slate cleaned. I'll just have to work harder to pay George back.

  'You look like someone who's had enough of the party.'

  Sighing, I turn around. I’m in no mood to be chatted up by some smart arse in a tux.

  'Well it's full of men who all need dick extensions with their equally plastic wives,' I snap.

  His mouth drops open for a minute as does mine. It's not like me to be so vulgar, but champagne always goes straight to my head. Then amusement plays on his face at my obvious trip-up.

  'That is very observant of you, and you're right it is full of men needing dick extensions as you so eloquently put it. But may I assure that I have no need for such things.'

  'I'm so sorry, I'm just having trouble keeping my tongue under control and I'm sure you don't,' I bluster, while blushing.

  I'm not sure whether he's flirting with me or just defending himself and it puts me on the back foot for a moment. This is an unusual feeling. I am too used to being one step ahead. With a raised eyebrow, he opens his mouth to speak, but someone catches his attention. He looks back at me and a large smile warms his face.

  'Well I sincerely hope that you can put up with us a little longer and come back to the party,' he says.

  'Maybe I will.'

  I watch while he walks away and then I hear Great Peter from the Minster ring from over the Walls. Screw it! If he's not there now then this Harry isn't going to turn up. I may as well as go home and making up my mind I run across the road and make my way home.