Under His Influence

by Justine Elyot

  “Why you want her so bad?” Luana, yawning in the corner in a bundle of blankets, watched her son at work. “She only Earth girl. Not B’delia princess.”

  “The B’delia princesses are all dead, Mother. You saw them die. We want strong blood and strong flesh. She has those.”

  “What we are come to,” lamented the woman, laying her head down to sleep. “We are the last ones. Everything is in your hands, son. Everything.”

  Mimi had been to the Fleet Street Ball once before, as the guest of an exalted political correspondent. Lowly creatures from the Features Desk weren’t usually invited to the glitzy charity extravaganza, so she had cultivated a relationship with the hoary old political warhorse with the specific agenda of angling herself an invitation.

  She had enjoyed the ball, and the man hadn’t been a bad shag either, so it was win-win. All the rumours about spectacular alcohol consumption and concomitantly scandalous behaviour had been quite true. She was still dining out on the anecdotes a year later.

  This year, pure hedonism was not her aim. This year, she had to work.

  Poured into a strapless spangly gown copied from one J-Lo had worn earlier in the year, she tried not to be too pink-cheeked and girlishly excited by the effect her curves had on John when she climbed into the waiting limousine.

  “Who’s this movie star?” he purred.

  “Oh, you know all the lines. Do they do corny chat-ups on your planet too, then?”

  “We are taught to charm. Charm is an underrated weapon.”

  “That’s what it’s for, in your eyes? A weapon?”

  John, sleek and groomed in his bespoke Savile Row suit, simply stretched his lips in a feline smile and flicked one of Mimi’s diamond drop earrings.

  “It works.”

  “Not on me it doesn’t.”

  “Oh, of course not.” His glib smile lingered about his lips just long enough for Mimi to get hot under her diamond choker. “Anyway, it isn’t you it has to work on. It’s Merchant. I need you to flirt with him, Miranda. I might even offer you to him as a sweetener.”

  “You will not!” yelped Mimi, jerking herself back from John’s steadily advancing clutches.

  “Joke,” he said. But he wasn’t smiling.

  They arrived at the Park Lane Hilton and Mimi reluctantly took John’s proffered arm, her bare skin prickling on contact with his fine wool sleeve. He smelled so incredible, and the very nearness of him was a drug racing through her bloodstream, rocketing down every nerve. He did this to Anna—resist it, resist it.

  She stared severely ahead, at the golden crystalline light pouring from the lobby, at the milling suited or gowned guests, breathing in other perfumes to dispel that alluring one directly beside her.

  There were nudges, even a few behind-the-hand snickers when people recognised John. Word had spread through the press that Stone was going to try to importune Rodney Merchant for more funds for his harebrained scheme. The general consensus was that he had been driven mad by the death of his wife and was a harmless eccentric. The fall of the mighty was always a favourite theme of newspaper hacks, and several of them looked forward to penning some editorial about arrogance and hubris.

  “There he is,” John said, having homed in immediately on the magnate, standing in a corner surrounded by eager editors and journalists. As the guest of honour, Rodney Merchant would be making the after-dinner speech, and sound bites were being begged at his feet.

  “There’s no future in public service broadcasting,” he was saying into a row of held-aloft Dictaphones. “If it isn’t what the majority wants to watch, why is it on TV? Those people on the margins that want to watch opera and foreign movies and documentaries about war zones ought to pay for it. Why not? They can afford it. Advertisers want slots in talent contests and celebrity reality shows. That’s what the people want.”

  “So entertainment should be free, but we should pay to be informed?” It was Prendergast speaking. “Isn’t that a bit topsy-turvy?”

  “I would expect my good friends at the Recorder to bring this up,” Merchant said with a condescending smile. “I suppose this is about the pay wall at the London Post website? Listen, it works. People are happy to pay for quality analysis. The people who want this are well-heeled and middle-class—like your readers, Prendergast. Perhaps you should consider it.”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell…” muttered Prendergast amidst general laughter. He caught sight of Stone and Mimi and spoke up again. “Actually, there’s someone here I promised to introduce you to. Would you mind?”

  Merchant waved his hangers-on away and stood, smiling expansively, until only Prendergast, Stone and Mimi remained.

  “You must be John Stone.” Merchant held out a hand, which John took and shook with vigour.

  “The very same,” he replied with a rakish grin. “And this is my friend, Miranda Leblanc, who works on Prendergast’s paper.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Miranda,” Merchant said with the trace of a leer.

  “Likewise,” she lied.

  Prendergast melted into the crowd, his job of introduction done, leaving the trio to find a quiet table in an alcove for their discussion.

  “So, the ozone replacement programme,” opened Merchant, to his credit keeping the easy ridicule out of his voice. “Tell me about that. I’m fascinated.”

  John outlined the design and function of his machine in enthusiastic detail, keeping Merchant hooked with his charismatic manner and convincing delivery. He was able to answer every question Merchant threw at him, batting them back with extra information until Merchant really seemed to have moved beyond scepticism and into belief.

  “And you’ve nearly finished it?”

  “I’m at a critical stage, Lord Merchant, so very close to completion. But I need additional materials and I’m running over budget. I’ve had some funding from the Ministry of Defence, but you know they’re slashing their expenditure, so I can’t really expect the government to step in again.”

  “I get the picture. How much?”

  “Two million.”

  “And when, if I might put it in crude terms, will I see a return on my investment?”

  “Prendergast must have told you about the knock-on effect on satellites transmitting to Earth. How you use that, Lord Merchant, is entirely up to you. The only limit is your imagination. I know that you know the power of media manipulation, suppression of information, subliminal messaging. These tools would be at your disposal, to an extent you’ve only been able to dream of up to now. I know you’ll have a hundred schemes ticking away right now, a hundred different ways of using this new capability. The return on your investment could be anything, from market monopoly to outright control of the world.”

  Merchant almost salivated, his eyes glazed at the idea. “Big talk,” he said after a pause.

  “It’s a big business. You only need to take that one step. The possibilities really are endless.”

  Merchant bit his lip, lost in contemplation. “What do you think, Miranda?”

  She was surprised to be canvassed and almost jumped in her seat.

  “What do I think?”

  “Yes. Should I give him the money? Or should I loan it, maybe?”

  “A loan would be acceptable, but I would expect shares in your empire once the satellites begin doing their stuff,” John cut in over Mimi’s tentative throat-clearing.

  “Oh, would you? Hmm. Well, I think a loan is the way to go. We’ll discuss your cut of the profits once we know the machine is working. Agreed?”

  John smirked triumphantly. “Agreed. Thank you.”

  “Give me your accountant’s number. I’ll have my people organise the money transfer tomorrow.”

  They shook on the deal and Merchant loped off, looking back as if not quite sure what he’d just done.

  “Smooth work,” commented Mimi. “Now there’s nothing stopping you. And you got a cut of his profits too.”

  “Oh, he’ll renege on that. He doesn’
t want me anywhere near his boardroom. He thinks I’m insane, but he figured, what the hell? I could see it all. The main thing is, he will give us the money.”

  “What makes you so sure he won’t go back on his word there as well?”

  “It was in the handshake,” John mused. “Clear as day. I’ll have to sign some complicated contract swearing never to reveal that he knows about the satellite effect, no doubt. Why would I tell anyone, though? I couldn’t care less who knows what.”

  A sultry tune struck up from the small dance floor orchestra, and John snapped into seduction mode.

  “Anyway. Merchant’s in the bag. Now I have to work on getting you in the sack. Dance with me.”

  “I…” Mimi could not refuse. She followed his beckoning hands, flying into his chest like a magnet, swirling onto the dance floor in his arms, feeling no more than a doll at his command.

  “Summertime,” he murmured along with the music into her ear, “and the living is easy.”

  His hand met the bare skin exposed by her plunge-backed dress and pressed into it, keeping her close.

  “You can buy your materials tomorrow,” she fluttered, trying as hard as she could to keep in a businesslike frame of mind while they circled the floor. But that scent, that touch, that feeling of need… Oh, it wasn’t easy.

  “Materials,” he echoed, using his fingertips to stroke the small of her back, slowly and hypnotically.

  “You can finish the machine. You don’t need me anymore. I’ve played my part now. You could let me go.”

  Don’t let me go.

  “You don’t want that,” John admonished, still stroking, sending warm breathy wavelets into her ear. “That’s not what you want.”

  “What do I want then?” Mimi’s challenge was halfhearted. She knew what she wanted. She knew she had to stop wanting it. But she couldn’t.

  “You want me.”

  “No, I don’t,” she insisted in a high, ragged voice that she knew sounded horribly like a child’s.

  “Oh, come on.” His pelvis ground against hers and she began to feel faint. “Who is this helping, all this virginal heroine stuff? Why not get down to it? Enjoy yourself.” He gave her bottom a sly pinch beneath the gauzy silvery dress and she groaned.

  “You promised me—”

  “I’ve kept my promise. I’ve let Anna go.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t keep using sex to try to manipulate me.”

  “I’m not using sex to try to manipulate you. I’m trying to manipulate you into sex. There’s a difference.”

  His lips were beneath her ear, at the pulse point where she had dabbed expensive perfume. His breath made the drop earring swing lightly.

  “I came through for you.”

  “I know, and now I want to make you come.”

  “Stop…please…”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t want it.”

  “I do. I do, but I don’t want you.”

  “You’re denying yourself.”

  “I don’t want you!” She shouted this last sentence and the neighbouring couples looked over, their swaying interrupted.

  “Miranda!”

  “I want a man who’s very like you, John. A man with your looks and your charm and your…sex appeal. But he needs to have more. He needs qualities you don’t have.”

  The dance ended and the master of ceremonies announced the start of the banquet.

  “Listen, sweetheart,” John hissed, holding her by the wrist, his words streaming into her ear while the throngs parted around them, swarming towards the tables. “I don’t know what makes you think you’re so special. If it was just sex I was after, I could get it anywhere in this room, a hundred times over. I’m conferring an honour on you. Stop being such a girl and give yourself to me.”

  “I want a real man,” insisted Mimi, her eyes filling with tears. “You aren’t one. You have too much missing.”

  “But I have psychic-linked you. You have to be mine.”

  “You haven’t earned me.”

  John made an incoherent noise of pure frustration, dropping her wrist and pushing past her to the banquet tables.

  He had been placed opposite Mimi, between a famous columnist and a former pop star-turned-pop-culture commentator.

  He smiled radiantly at each in turn, expressing his belief that this was the luckiest night of his life, and poured them a glass of wine, leaving Mimi to sort herself out.

  Smarmy git, she thought viciously, watching him flirt shamelessly with the columnist, whose mask of thick makeup and sparrow-boned wrists gave the opposite impression to the insouciant youthfulness they were intended to convey.

  He leaned over her, hemming her in with the force of his attention, occasionally throwing a glance over his shoulder at the blonde former pop star in reply to one of her let-me-in remarks. As John charmed and his neighbours fawned, Mimi grew increasingly jaundiced, downing too much wine and ignoring the exquisite dishes that appeared regularly beneath her nose.

  “You’re such a brilliant man!” gushed the columnist, playing with her summer fruit mousse rather than eating it.

  Mimi snorted audibly, causing both females opposite to regard her with shocked disdain.

  “Mimi, have you had quite enough to drink?” John moved the bottle out of her reach, but she snatched for it, missing and thumping the table hard. Cutlery rattled. He mouthed something to the other women that looked to Mimi like “Drink problem.”

  She lurched to her feet, pointing angrily at John.

  “He’s a charlatan,” she ranted. “Listen to him at your peril. I’m not going to anymore.”

  Her dignified flouncing was marred somewhat by the staggering steps she took out of the banqueting hall, but at least she was out of sight of the other guests by the time she tripped, stumbled and sank down on a sofa in the lobby, falling immediately and ingloriously into openmouthed sleep.

  When she came to, one diamond drop was digging into her cheek and her head felt jammed with marshmallow glue. Her eyes didn’t focus for a while, but her ears worked, and they could hear some strange noises.

  Grunts, gasps, broken words, the creak of springs. Put them together and what have you got?

  “Where…?” She sat up and squinted around herself. This wasn’t the hotel. They were back at John’s house, in his huge front room. Mimi had been dumped on an armchair, while over on the rug by the Victorian fireplace… Oh.

  She looked away, blinked, looked back to make sure.

  It was real.

  John had his hands squarely on the naked shoulders of the pop star girl and was pumping in and out of her from behind, a blur of sweat and industry, while the columnist, sated in a silk dressing gown, reclined on a nearby armchair, sipping cognac.

  “Oh, you’ve joined the land of the living,” she hailed condescendingly. “I expect you’d like a nip of this, would you? Perhaps not such a good idea.”

  She shot Mimi a sickly-sweet smile.

  “Your boyfriend’s a terrific shag, isn’t he? It’s ten years at least since I came like that.”

  Mimi hid her head in her hands.

  “Miranda.” John’s voice was harsh and laboured. “Care to join us? Lula here likes licking pussy, or so she says. Come and spread yourself for her.”

  “Fuck you,” mumbled Mimi from behind her wall of self-imposed darkness.

  “Oh, I’m getting plenty of that. And so are the girls. Eh, Lula? How is that for you?”

  “Fucking amazing,” panted Lula. “Keep going.”

  Mimi struggled to her feet. “Don’t mind me. I’m going to bed.”

  “Stay!” John ordered, and he sounded so fierce and resolute that Mimi halted in her tracks. “Watch.”

  She teetered on the verge of vomiting, watching John give Lula a carpet-burn-garnering seeing-to. He thrust until Lula began to squeal, the loud excitable whoops that had been her vocal trademark, then he put his fingers on her clit and fingered her through the orgasm, taking his own pleasure once the unholy rac
ket had died away.

  “Good,” said John, pulling out and briskly smacking her bottom. “Now go and lick Ros while I watch. Mimi, come here. Come and see what you’re missing.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “Are you prudish, Mimi? I didn’t think you were the type.”

  “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. I’m not jealous. Just disgusted.”

  “Disgusted? Okay, girls, that’s enough. Bored now.”

  John stood and pulled Lula off Ros, the columnist, who cried in outrage at having her pleasant interlude interrupted.

  “Get dressed. Go home.”

  “But I thought…”

  Whatever Lula had thought was clearly of no interest to John, who was already calling a cab.

  “You used us!” Ros exclaimed, quivering with rage.

  John did no more than nod peremptorily, looking up from the phone.

  “She was right all along. You are a charlatan. But you’re messing with the wrong lady. I’ll expose you.”

  John brushed a hand down his naked body towards his still half-erect cock, as if to say, Isn’t this exposed enough for you? He ended the call.

  “Thanks for the sex,” he said, pointing to the door. “Ta ta for now.”

  “I pity you.” Ros shuddered dramatically as she swept past Mimi and picked up her discarded clothes.

  “So do I,” replied Mimi. “I pity me.”

  “It’s a shame,” said Lula, apparently less devastated than the older woman. “That was a top shag, like. Still, easy come, easy go. Maybe some other time.”

  John inclined his head with a raffish smile.

  “Unlikely,” he said, with a note of regret. “Good evening.”

  Once they were dressed and gone, he turned to Mimi.

  “You aren’t jealous?” He sounded baffled.

  “Why would I be? You are nothing to me. Shag who you like. Just leave me out of it.”

  But it didn’t sound convincing, even to Mimi herself.

  “But you want me. You must want me.”

  “John, I explained this. You have bits missing. Vital bits. Without the capacity to feel certain natural human emotions, you can’t be good for me.”

  John snatched up a robe and slipped it on, as if embarrassed by his nudity.