***
Their relationship, however, had taken a twist when they attended a charity event, bidding against each other on a Louis Vuitton bag. Neither really had a use for such a thing but it became a bit of a ‘rut’, with Bob having the biggest antlers, or, in reality, wallet, as it turned out. As they sat having a post-battle drink, a stunning looking waitress, petite with dark brown hair and a body that could have bossed any non-anorexic catwalk asked them if they would like any more drinks. She was more Dario’s age than Bob’s. Dario had ordered a bottle of port and a cheese board to go with it. The waitress returned a few minutes later with the order. Bob watched her carefully; he was amazed how pure her skin was: very little makeup he thought but a face that reminded him of an old movie; Breakfast at Tiffany's. He loved that look, not just beautiful, not just a perfect complexion but a natural classic style that money can't buy. He could never pinpoint what gave someone a classy look but he could always spot it.
Bob watched Dario hand her what looked like a fifty and a twenty and told her to keep the change, this despite the fact it wasn’t his round.
“No! That’s way too much, I can’t.”
Bob had met her eyes and smiled at her. She felt an instant attraction. Bob, she had thought, was probably about fifteen years older than her but she had always liked older men.
“Don’t worry, he has more money than sense,” he had said. The woman had laughed out loud, a bit too loud maybe. Dario narrowed his gaze, he looked, not so much embarrassed, more annoyed, she thought. She left and returned with the change a moment later. She had noticed that Dario had spoken more to her breasts than her face. He accepted the change and thanked her cleavage.
“Oh, man!” said Dario. “Goldilocks tits!”
“Eh!” enquired Bob
“Not too big, not too small, just right,” replied Dario.
Bob laughed but it was an uncomfortable laugh, more about being one of the guys than anything. Bob didn't go in for trash talk, he liked being a gent and was maybe even a bit prudish.
When she had finished her shift that night there was a large, well used, M&S carrier bag waiting at reception. On the bag there was a yellow ‘post-it’ with her name on it and one word and a name; ‘Enjoy, Bob’. That had made her laugh; was it a comment or an invitation? She felt her wicked side rising. Inside was a beautiful designer bag. Zoe met Bob a week later for a coffee, six months later for a wedding and now, nearly three years on from that first coffee they were together and enjoying a luxurious lifestyle.
***
Bob checked his phone. He had no signal.
“He’s late,” Said Bob.
“Don’t worry, he always does this,” said Dario. “It’s all about the power.”
Smith arrived twenty minutes later. Dario introduced Bob and after some pointless, polite chat Smith gave a smarmy smile and then asked to speak to Dario in private. Bob instantly disliked Smith who he thought was probably about five years older and around sixty. Smith was a walking beer gut dressed in non-matching, overly baggy trousers and a threadbare jacket. His face told all that he liked a glass of port and his hair was slicked back: a ‘Brill-cream’ throwback. He was glad that Dario would deal with him and was already having second thoughts. But, he knew that, although business was good, he needed a boost to sort out a ‘wee problem’ before it got out of hand.
Bob’s phone bleeped to tell him he had an incoming text message and he looked to see ‘TT’ on screen. The signal had almost immediately dropped again. He read the message; ‘call me asap.”
He pushed the door open and Smith stared at him guiltily. Bob ignored him and looked straight at Dario.
“Have to go, sorry, speak later.”
“What is it?” Dario pleaded. He knew almost everything about Zoe and her petty problems, which were self-inflicted as far as he was concerned but he had always been there for Bob and they confided in each other. Bob was out the door and gone. The classic 1967 Jaguar, his pride and joy, threw up stone chips as it sped off.
Bob arrived home and threw open the front door. There were tracks of not so ‘happy feet’ running along the hall in both directions. They had chatted on the phone as he drove. He knew she was safe and that Diane had just left but he was glad to see that for himself. Zoe was sitting on the floor, wrapped in an oversized fluffy white dressing gown. She didn’t look up.
“You need to sort this,” she hissed.
Bob looked back at the carpet. He hated mess; pristine, for him, was a way of life. “Let's go to hospital for a check-up,” he said.
“A and E on a Friday night? Don't be so stupid. Why didn’t you call me back?”
“You know what the new place is like, no signal!”
“Hope you weren't away losing more money playing cards?”
“It’s poker, not cards and no, I was working. How could he possibly get your phone number?” he asked. “He must work for the phone company or something,” he added.
“I think he is a lot closer to home,” Zoe replied.
“Oh, come on, not that again?”
Zoe quizzed him. “Have you written my new number down at work? Have you left your phone lying about? Where was he at ten past seven when I got that call?”
“We have been working together all day for Christ sake, and no, I have you in my phone as ‘TT’ and always delete calls and texts from the log. No one at work gets to know the number. And anyway, I have my phone with me always.”
“So, do you go to the toilet with him, or outside for a smoke, every minute, every day, I doubt it!” she said.
“Let’s get the police again?” he said. “I’ve spent a fortune on that CCTV. No one can get near the house without it picking them up and I get see it on my phone. You are safe. We are safe. This is our castle, our fortress.”
“Forget the Police, they’ve been worse than useless,” she said, “How could he know I was in the bath?”
“What exactly did he say?” asked Bob.
“Two words, ‘nice’ and ‘bath’, so what do you make out of that Inspector Clouseau?” she mocked.
“Why did you answer it? I thought we’d agreed?”
“Wish I hadn’t. Just so wanted it to not be him,“ said Zoe.
Bob, closed his eyes, tilted his head back and sighed. “What next? Another new phone for now. At least it's just phone calls. Whoever it is might just get bored and move on to someone else,” He added. “Can you think of anyone, anyone at all?”
Bob looked at the carpet. “What's the best way to remove blood from a carpet?” he asked. A funny question as Zoe didn't do cleaning. That was the maid's job.
“Leave it to Jane, she will be in on Monday after lunch.”
Bob laughed out loud. Zoe scowled at him.
“I’ll get a company in tomorrow morning,” he said, still amused. “Do you still feel like going out, maybe come back for an early night?” He added.
“Let’s order-in, I can feel a headache coming on.”
“There is a late night game tonight. I had said I would be there. I will call and cancel it.”
“No, go and play your cards. I do feel safe in the castle, honest, I do, but this needs sorted.”
Bob adored Zoe, even though that was sometimes a bit of a one-way street, but he loved gambling and especially poker. His downfall though was that he was a ‘two flies’ gambler; literally. He had once had £100 bet with a fellow poker player about which piece of discarded pizza the fly in the room was going to land on. No one was allowed to kill the doomed critter until it had landed. The fly preferred pepperoni to four seasons and had its last meal buried in it, winning Bob the wager.
By eleven o’clock Zoe had stuffed her face with chicken curry, finished off the bottle of Sauvignon and headed off to bed with her book. The book would remain closed and she would sleep soundly without fear.
Bob entered the combination and opened the safe. He lifted the tiny black velvet pouch and without opening it he counted the stones. They were all there.
He knew they would be but he felt better counting them and imagined himself as Shylock: The Merchant of Venice, his favourite Shakespeare. He lifted the envelope and looked inside. Ten layers of fifty-pound notes. Twenty in each layer with one folded around the other nineteen, the proper way for a proper gambler. He knew he was good for credit if he needed it but tonight he felt lucky. There weren’t any whales tonight but there were fish and he was going fishing.
3
Cheryl, real name Margaret, was sitting in her nearly new Porsche Cayenne. It was champagne white; she liked champagne and it had been a treat after another good year. At 40 she was a petite beauty, 5’ 2” with magnificent 34D breasts, which were all hers, unlike most of her co-workers. Emerald green eyes were from her mother and an entrancing feature. The Boss always said she was at her peak; perfect as a MILF but young enough to suit the more mature client. Her 15-year-old son was at home and believed she was out working as a ‘Customer Satisfaction Representative’. She considered this as a near truth and therefore not actually telling him a lie. He never quizzed her on her work, thankfully. He was far too engrossed in computer technology. He was ‘a genius’, so he said, but it was an expensive hobby with constant upgrades required on a regular basis. She earned plenty of money but it came with risks as most jobs do.
She removed the bright red scrunchie from the top of her head allowing her long blonde hair to cascade down around the contour of her face. She had to make sure her hair was up out of range of the flame. She had just left Charles aka Neo. She liked to give her clients a nickname to remind her of their preferences. Charles was an eighty-three-year-old retired head teacher. He reminded her of John Cleese in many ways but he was easy to work with and both safe and generous. Charles liked nothing more than wax being dripped onto his groin as he sorted himself. But Cheryl knew she had to be ready, under his command, at the crucial point, to slop some Neapolitan ice cream onto his balls. It had to be Neopolitan. Why? She never asked or really wanted to know. A few clients per day like Charles would be perfect she thought to herself. Afterwards, a shower with some of her favourite Clarins shampoo and she was happy. She enjoyed the luxuries her trade provided. After all her hair was a work asset and once clean she could head home in time to make dinner; reborn and ready for tomorrow and groundhog-day.
Not all her clients were so easy to please. Every Friday afternoon she wished that Droopy might not book in but he always did. She had first met him ‘off duty’ and he had seemed charming and caring. After a few dates, he still hadn’t tried to get close to her but she felt safe with him and her work normally gave her an extra sense when judging people. He visited a couple of times at her home and on one occasion briefly met Harry. When she eventually felt comfortable enough she had told him what she did for a living his mood changed instantly, which wasn’t unexpected. She had tried to explain how difficult her life had been but he went missing and didn't contact her for several weeks. The next time she spoke to him was when she arrived at the Blake mansion, the home of a wealthy businessman whom she had visited many times. Blake wasn't there but Droopy was. Blake was out of the country and he was house sitting for him. He knew that Blake was a client of hers and he told her then that he was going to take his place for the foreseeable future. That had been three months ago and mostly it was a case of not annoying him, playing to his ego, and going home without a bruise. During one session she had picked up a photograph which had fallen from his wallet, it was a lovely petite blonde lady. He had snatched it angrily from her and pushed her onto the bed. Straddling her he had pinned her arms to her side and pushed his cigarette close enough to her eye that she could feel its heat. As she lay there terrified her head was filled with thoughts; being blind, what would she do for work, what would happen to her son. She had remained calm and talked him round, but only just. As she chatted to him his face had softened and he had rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed. He said nothing more and she left him sitting there. She had hoped that was the last she would see of him. But over time she realised that although he had a tendency for misogynism she had some kind of immunity, possibly due to her similarity to the lady in the picture? The picture had never been mentioned again but was her talisman. She had thought about turning to the boss to get rid of him but if it didn't work out she worried that he knew where she lived and had met her son. She felt trapped and a bit impotent, much like him.
As she pulled into the drive at the Blake mansion she slowed to a stop, as she always did, hesitating. The mansion, a stunning sandstone block on two levels with floor to ceiling arch windows was hidden behind a forest of trees and shrubs. She loved this house more than any other clients and had a bit of a soft spot for Blake. She pressed down on the throttle and roared up towards the front door. She knew the best way to deal with him was to show no weakness. Weakness brought the bully out in him.
He stood in the doorway waiting for her to get out of the Porsche. He wasn’t smiling and that put her on edge. Every week she thought about telling the Boss but as the weeks went on it seemed more of a deception on her part. The Boss always did background checks on clients. Vetting was an important part of the game: confidentiality, suitability, history of violence and of course, financial status were considerations.
On occasions, being an escort meant just that, and Cheryl could play any part. She had attended some fancy-ass events over the years with clients and fitted in brilliantly. She was not only well educated, she was an actor. The Boss loved her and knew that she could cope with almost anything thrown at her.
She hadn't reached the door when he spoke. “I need that, computer geek, son of yours to get me some information.”
She felt a chill in her bones. He had never mentioned her son in any visit previously. She tried to keep calm. “Can we at least go inside and talk?”
“No! you're not staying.”
“Please, let's spend some time together. You know I will be good to you.”
“Forget it!” He handed her a piece of paper.
Cheryl was morphing into Margaret.
“I will do anything you want, anything, but not Harry, he’s just a daft kid, no use to you, he says he is good with computers but he isn't, really, he's not,” rambled Margaret.
“He can help or I can chop a few fingers off, see how good he is with a computer then, your choice,” he said.
This was a horrible development in the relationship. Cheryl wondered how she was going to appease him while Margaret thought about ways of killing him.
“Tell him this is what I need. He has one week, starting now.”
He handed her some scrunched up twenties and closed the door. Cheryl felt as used as the filthy notes. Time had come to tell the Boss she thought to herself. Margaret went home early to cuddle a reluctant son.
4
Bob could hold his own at poker but he wasn't quite the ‘shark’ he would like to have been. He had been playing for a few years and had progressed from an online learner, losing fun money, to a competent ‘rock’, playing fewer hands while waiting on stronger cards. Every once in a while a ‘whale’, a weak player with lots of money, would come along and allow the sharks to feast. Whales came with pockets of cash and even when that had run out they were good for any amount of credit, they always paid up because it was easy for them.
There were no whales tonight which was a pity as Bob could have done with a boost to his bank. Playing the ‘rock’ had its disadvantages; always being predictable was a way to the poor house. When he had hit his lucky streak two years earlier he decided to invest much of his winnings and play with a bank of forty thousand. Some of his investment was in that little velvet bag back home. Zoe knew what was in the bag and was happy that one day she would get to wear them. But, after a horrible run of bad luck, which he often told himself was not, in any way, his fault, he had a modest bank of ten thousand. On top of that he had also already replaced ten of the diamonds with cubic but he knew his luck would change and his princess would once more have her jewel
s. He was, after all, doing this for Zoe.
The room was a cliche’ of a movie poker room. Dark and smoky with a round table hosting six titans. A side table was manned by the Management and offered a variety of drinks and snacks. Bob avoided the alcohol, poker was difficult enough. Everyone had paid their entry fee and the Management announced the game as ‘live’. There was little chatter as it wasn't a ‘friendly’. It was 3.35am when Bob reached over and dragged the ‘pot’ towards him. It was hard to say just how much was there but he reckoned it was the best part of eighteen thousand and that wasn't including the four thousand, or so, he still had in front of him. He was smiling but inside he was more relieved than anything. His luck was back in and he couldn't wait till the next game. He handed the Management a small thank you and headed home.
Once home he parked the Range Rover next to the Jag. He stood looking out onto the well-lit lawn. It reminded him of the time Zoe had taken him to the enchanted garden. They had only been going out a few weeks and it was the best time of his life. He could still see what had been a surreal environment of strangely shaped trees brightly lit in a myriad of colour, while, in his arms was a beautiful, sexy young woman, who loved and cared for him. The double door of the garage slid down slowly and quietly gradually blocking out the crisp winter morning. He could see his breath and he felt elated and so alive. Twenty-four thousand in his bank, he thought to himself. Maybe even a bit more. He was hoping for one more piece of luck; where was Zoe, home or away? He opened the bedroom door gently. The covers were undisturbed, Zoe was in ‘her’ room. He crept downstairs, showered and went to ‘his’ bed.
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