Formal British Reserve

by Leigh Clark

  We drove in silence to Kent. I still didn’t know what Les was up to, but there was something about Alison, the way she drummed her fingers on her thighs, the constant fiddling with her lipstick, turning on the interior light to check her bee-stung lips were properly pink and glossy, that suggested she was expecting much more from the evening than just to drop off the goods and drive home.

  “This is your first delivery …” I began, but she cut me off with a gesture that was almost rude.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.” If it was meant to sound reassuring, it didn’t. It sounded like another threat, to add to the ones I was amassing.

  I tried to think about Thursday’s pleasures, the gasping, knee-trembling lust my young lover had demonstrated, the easy pleasure he’d given me. Perhaps next Thursday there would be a prim lady whom I could introduce to the joys of after cinema sex? I really wanted to get hold of some prim librarian type and teach her my own less cerebral joys. On the other hand, perhaps by next Thursday I wouldn’t have a job … I gripped the steering wheel tightly and concentrated on the road ahead.

  The house was wonderful, totally not what I’d expected. Les, with his love of dainty ceramics, always seemed like the kind of person who would live in a little mews cottage down a cobbled lane. Actually nobody knew where he did live, he always arranged meetings in public places and his supposed home address was a PO Box in central London. But this … this was amazing! A 1920s Art Deco cube, with rounded corners, a glass veranda, Clarice Clift stained glass and a garden filled with topiary evergreens shaped like Henry Moore statues.

  I parked at the back of the house, what anybody would have called the servants entrance, and rang the bell. There was a long pause and then Les answered the door, dressed as a butler. I nearly fell off the step—he was supposed to be Mrs Whitely!

  “Ah, the delivery,” he intoned, like a perfect Jeeves. “Please take it through the kitchen and into the drawing room. Refreshments have been set out for you there, as I understand from Mrs Whitely that you will be unpacking and installing the … items for her party there.”

  We picked up the crate and man-or-woman-handled it past him. I was trying to telegraph my shock and horror but he looked down his nose at me with such perfect aplomb that I began to wonder if I were going mad.

  “Mrs Whitely will be down to see you immediately,” he said and then, as Alison bent over the box and began to pull out the nails, he winked at me, before closing the door on us. My heart wasn’t going to take much more of this.

  I helped Alison pull the various dildos, manacles, paddles, lubes, switches, masks and so on from the box and then we began to take out the big metal bars and brackets that made up the whipping frame ‘Mrs Whitely’ had ordered. The door opened. I glanced over and dropped the heavy metal right on my foot. It was Les as Mrs Whitely, and he must have gone the fastest quick change of all time.

  “Hello Alison dear,” he said in a fruity mature lady voice, completely ignoring me. “So glad you could make it. Ah …” he turned to me with benign indifference, “Jennings needs some help in the kitchen, perhaps you could assist him.”

  “Jennings?” I squeaked, partly through the pain of my bruised foot, and partly through shock.

  “My butler.” He/she turned away from me again and began to pick up the things we already unpacked. I scowled at his back and left the room.

  I desperately wanted to stand outside the door and listen, but when Les said do something you did it. I stepped back into the kitchen and had my second big shock of the evening. There was Minty, sitting at the kitchen table, swilling a gin fizz. She raised an eyebrow and put her fingers to her lips, pointing to the ceiling. I looked up, but there was nothing to see. Then I heard Les, as rich as a plum cake, and realised that he must be using a hidden microphone to carry the conversation in the dining room to the kitchen.

  “So Alison dear,” he said, “That little matter we discussed when we met …” It was uncanny how feminine he sounded.

  “It’s going ahead, Mrs Whitely,” Alison said crisply. “We’d certainly welcome another investor although I think we can be confident that F.B.R. isn’t going to be much of a rival.”

  I stared at Minty who closed her eyes in pain, swigged her drink and then opened her eyes again, glaring at me with ferocious anger. I took a step back before I realised the anger wasn’t meant for me.

  “Really? Pray do explain.” I thought Les was laying it on a bit thick, but of course Alison had no idea that he was a female impersonator and was probably too focused on whatever it was she was trying to achieve to reflect on his ironic phrases.

  “Oh yes,” she said, and I could even hear the minor clanks and bangs as she assembled the frame. “F.B.R. has had its day—there have been many complaints in recent months about sloppy treatment and shoddy goods, and a new concern, offering a real bespoke service to the discerning connoisseur will soon take what little trade they have left.”

  “Cow!” I hissed. “She made all those complaints happen on purpose—she’s been setting problems up deliberately to steal our customers from us.”

  Minty sliced her hand across her throat to shut me up, but I thought the gesture was meant as much for Alison as me.

  Les carried on, plying Alison with sherry, asking the kind of questions that a mature woman with not much grasp of business would ask, complimenting the traitor on her business acumen. Slowly, skilfully, he prised out of her the names of her other backers and investors, one of whom, Elizabeth Bellingham, was not only a friend of Minty’s but who’d hatched the entire scheme. I looked over—the boss was poker-faced but her hand was shaking slightly.

  “Elizabeth is Alison’s other godmother,” she said slowly. “How very incestuous.”

  There was a lull in the conversation coming through the loudspeaker, then the kitchen door opening and Les/Mrs Whitely entered.

  “Ready?” he asked, and Minty nodded.

  “I’m not! What are we doing?” I asked.

  “We’ve got a frame, a selection of implements and an isolated house—we’re going to teach that young woman a lesson she won’t forget,” Les said.

  “And we’re going to record it and send the whole film to Elizabeth,” Minty said resolutely.

  When we went back in, Alison was playing with one of the masks, but she dropped it to the floor when she recognised Minty. Her hands were shaking so much when we strapped her to the frame that it actually rattled, despite the sturdiness of its construction. Minty selected a riding crop and whistled it through the air, as Les ran a pair of sturdy dressmakers shears along the seams of Alison’s clothing, leaving her naked.

  I should have stayed, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to see the punishment she was going to endure—pain without pleasure held no interest for me, so I drifted out of the room and up the staircase, admiring the art deco lamps and the stylized pillars, until I reached the bathroom. There was an original claw foot bath in there, with what must have been one of the first smoked mirrors ever created and when I’d stared at myself in it for a few seconds I turned on the taps and emptied a whole bottle of bath essence into the water until bubbles poured over the edge. I had no idea whose house it was, or how Les had managed to get Minty there, but I was sure that whatever I did, it would be okay. I took off my clothes and lowered myself into the lotus-scented water, pulling the pins out of my hair and letting my head sink beneath the foam so that the lacquer was removed. I knew it would dry in bright red ringlets, but I didn’t care, all I wanted was to wash Alison’s betrayal of F.B.R. off my skin.

  When I finally returned downstairs, Alison was a sobbing heap in the kitchen. She was dressed in an old sweatsuit and tears had made snail tracks down her face and neck.

  “I’m sorry, Sandrine,” she wailed. “I’m sorry you nearly lost your job because of me.”

  I glanced over at Mi
nty, who looked as stern as a marble statue, then at Les, who was watching Alison with cold-eyed disgust.

  “You’re a liar and a cheat,” I said. “But as long as I never see you again, I don’t care. Get out and stay out.” She thanked me, Minty threw her shoes at her, and she ran out of the back door into the night.

  “Thanks,” I said, vaguely, not sure if Minty knew who, or what, Les really was.

  “No, thank you,” Minty leaned over and took my hand, her massive rings cutting into my fingers. “I should never have doubted you. If Mrs Whitely hadn’t told me that I was being a fool, I might have lost my business, and the best manager I’ve ever had.”

  I took the cue gratefully. “Thank you Mrs Whitely,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it dear,” Les said sweetly. “When Minty mentioned the problem at our whist afternoon I realised immediately that I could help her sort the sheep from the goats.” I blinked, trying to imagine Minty and Mrs Whitely playing whist. “My husband was with MI6 during the Falklands War, you know. I have some understanding over covert operations.”

  My mind boggled—the introduction of Mr Whitely was really a step too far.

  “The poor girl looks exhausted,” Minty said. “Give her a brandy, Ethel.”

  Ethel! I began to giggle and managed to turn it into a sneeze, then Les/Ethel handed me a large tumbler full of what must be cooking brandy and I glugged it down, really needing the chance to gather my wits.

  “She can’t drive back now, Minty,” Les/Ethel said when the glass was empty. “I’ll get Jennings to take her home.”

  Minty took the hint, graciously given as it was, kissed me on both cheeks, promised me a pay rise and summoned her own chauffer who had been waiting at the front of the house in her Rolls Royce.

  Les vanished, to reappear as himself, turtleneck sweater and all, even the goatee beard was back.

  “How do you do that?” I asked.

  He frowned, and I remembered that Mum had said never to ask him such questions.

  “Sandrine, you’re my niece, and for you I’d do anything, but that’s not information you need to know.”

  “Can I ask whose house this is?”

  He shook his head, but he smiled a little.

  “It’s yours, isn’t it? And is this where you play whist?”

  He raised one eyebrow.

  “I mean, where Mrs Whitely plays whist?”

  He smiled again.

  I let him bundle me into the van and half-drowsed all the way home. I only woke up properly when he pulled up outside my flat and tossed something cold and smooth into my lap.

  “A Rennie Mackintosh perfume atomiser,” he said. “I saw it at an auction and thought it would be perfect for you.”

  I picked up the bottle and stared at it in the streetlights. It was beautiful and it was old. I felt my nipples pucker and wondered how it would feel to slide the cold glass over my bare skin.

  “Good night Sandrine,” Les said, and leaned over to open my door. I had a sudden urge to pull on his beard and see if it came off in my hand, but I resisted.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Go to bed. You’ve got a busy day on Monday—you’ve got to advertise for a new staff member.”

  I grinned, remembering that I still had my job and blew him a kiss as he pulled away.

  The perfume bottle was just as good as I’d hoped, and it was several happy hours before I fell asleep.

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