Carrion: A Story of Passion Read online

  I laughed because it was what was expected. "Well now, Mr Harrington, you never know – make a big enough investment and I may just need me to come over and sign those papers with you." I force myself to giggle and think how pleased Lucy would be.

  "That's my gal - always think about the size of the investment package first." He barrel-laughs. "So tell me more about it, only make it quick, I've got a site walk in ten." I get the impression that he invests with Frederick Moore purely so he can tell the guys at the country club that he has 'London' Investments. I'm on the phone with Chuck for more than half an hour (clearly his site visit can wait) but in the end he says,

  "Yep, just send over the papers to whatever you think and I'll get the boys to take a look." By boys, he means his own finance team. I find it strange that he should not get 'his boys' to talk to me directly, seeing as he clearly has no real interest in the ins and outs of investment portfolios.

  When the call ended, I was sure to make a noticeable thing of walking up to the client board and putting a large tick through Chuck Harrington's name. I wrote the figure of £12M next to it and drew the customary smiley face – something Marcia started a week into her internship and which all the team adopted. I'd just secured the company a twelve million pound deal that Frederick Moore would magically turn into a six million pound profit in the first few weeks of owning it. I never investigated too far into what exactly Frederick Moore invested in – I was afraid of what I might discover, and then I’d have been forced to make some kind of ethical decision that would have probably ended up in me becoming homeless and starving.

  I smiled inwardly as Marcia looked over at the board and forced herself to mouth a strangled congratulation. Less than ten minutes later, she headed over to the board and put a tick through the name William Green, writing £13M next to his name and drawing a smiley face, which I swear was winking. She stood for a moment, scanning the office to check it had been noted and then she caught me looking at the board. She grinned, awaiting her congratulations. She was left waiting. I slid back down into my chair and flicked through my paperwork, making myself look busy and then I opened my e-mail. There as expected was an e-mail from Lucy that consisted of nothing other than a subject line. It read, 'MY OFFICE. SOON AS!!!!!'

  I stood. I wasn’t invited to sit. All at once, I’m back in the headmistress’ office. I imagine Lucy with a cane, and the image isn't entirely displeasing. She sat forward with her fingers laced together.

  "I hear you've just closed the Chuck Harrington deal," she said, flicking a smile of plastic Parisian Red. I took a small pleasure in noting it had smudged one of her front teeth, making her look vaguely ridiculous and clown-like.

  I nodded my head.

  "You do know that he'll only deal with you!"

  I raised my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. I had guessed that the old guy had a bit of a soft spot for me, but I hadn’t realised how deeply his cross Atlantic fantasy ran.

  "It's a bloody good job that you can close a deal, Charlotte, because god knows, I don't get it!" She screwed up her mouth and I saw that her face is truly ugly.

  I folded my hands across my chest, protecting myself from the monster in front of me. Silently I cursed my obvious display of cowardice. I knew that I should be approaching the table and slamming my palms down, telling her to get the fuck off my back and to let me get on with it in my own way. I should have told her to go and screw herself because clearly nobody else was doing the job - but I didn’t. I forced myself to unfold my hands and part my legs in a slightly pathetic attempt at making myself seem less subordinate.

  "I don't know how you do it, Charlotte, but your one of our best profit performers. David says I should leave you to it – but that's not my style: I like to nurture potential, to kick a dead horse until it decides it wants to live."

  My brow furrowed at her clumsy, and to be frank, absurd analogy. She prated on about coaching and guidance, and motivation and blah de blah de blah de blah...

  Outside, on the window-ledge was a magpie. It tapped on the glass, bewitched by the glitter of the glass in the sun, but Lucy was too far into her own ego to notice it. My eyes ran over its form, noting how one of its feathers stuck out at an odd angle: broken. It turned the creature into something damaged and misshapen.

  I wondered what it was going to be like to cut through the flesh and into the body of a once living thing; to lift out its innards and to turn the skin inside out. I imagined the feel of holding the eyes between my fingers and I contemplated what the dead see. Do the eyes turn inwards to look at the soul? I turned my attention back to Lucy and found myself studying her sculptural form, exploring the bones under her skin. I looked into her eyes and imagined them as shiny glass buttons.

  Lucy’s mouth clacked open and shut and it took me a few moments to catch up with what she is saying.

  "... over the last couple of weeks. Is there anything I should know about a change of circumstances?"

  I shook my head and she mistook it at first for an answer to her question.

  "The last couple of weeks?" I repeated, furrowing my brow.

  She nodded and attempted a facial expression of caring and understanding. It looked like she was in pain. "It's just that you've seemed a little preoccupied. I was wondering if you'd been under the weather?"

  "Have I given you concern about meeting my monthly target?" I asked, knowing that it is only the twentieth of the month and I have already surpassed my target.

  "It's not that. It's the way that you are... presenting yourself."

  I glanced in one of the mirrored panels of her cupboards. I was standing straight on black Kurt Geiger stilettos, dressed in a black Austin Reed skirt suit and a Ralph Lauren white shirt. My hair was cropped short and textured. My stockings were not laddered and I had showered that morning. Admittedly, I looked a little tired. Under the harsh fluorescent lights I could see that the pale violet petals under my eyes had been poorly covered by Touch Éclat, but I hardly warranted the, 'you look a mess, get your act together' conversation. I smoothed my hands over my skirt and my fingers caught on the suspender belt underneath. I pressed my lips together to prevent a smile at the thought of my life outside of the office.

  "Well, I'm sorry if I have given a poor impression of late, I'll do my best to ensure that you are more satisfied with my presentation in the future," I said in my most neutral voice.

  She looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t quite read but I got the feeling that somehow our conversation had not been the kind of sadistic pleasure she’d hoped for. Bullying was obviously her fuck replacement, and I had left her sadly disappointed.

  The altercation between Lucy and me were as exciting as it ever got at work. The rest of the day was spent doing what needed to be done, broken by a trip to the deli across the road for lunch and a mid afternoon walk down to Starbucks on the ground floor when the thought of anymore crappy vending machine coffee made me want to puke. On the way, I ordered a box of doughnuts from the bakery next door and asked them to deliver them to the office on the sixth floor. It was my birthday after all. I watched the clock and as soon as it hit five-thirty, I packed up and left.

  It was already dark outside. It was still raining. I watched the number 5 bus go by. The number 5 was the bus I used to catch to get home when I couldn’t face the tube. It was over a month since I had caught that bus. I stood under the glass canopy, taking shelter from the rain. The most natural thing in the world would have been to walk up to the bus stop, travel the fifteen minutes across town and unlock my own door with my own keys; the same as I’d done for first eighteen months of my glittering graduate career. I thought about my flat and how the spider plant on the kitchen windowsill would be dying, prompting a strange pang of guilt. The washing in the machine would have gone mouldy and God knows what I'd left in the fridge. I looked up at the megalithic steel and glass building in front of me and wondered where Alexander’s office was. He'd been there for less than two years and already he had his ow
n office, and knowing him, a brass plaque on the door. My phone went. It was Alexander. He informed me that he was going to be on a late call to the States and that I should go on home. He left the key to the flat in reception. It struck me that I had not been given my own key before now. He said not to worry about supper, that he'd bring something home with him.

  Home. He meant his.

  "There's wine in the fridge. I'm hoping to be away by seven."

  "Okay, I'll see you then."

  "Yep, see you later." He sounded distracted, or in company.

  There was a small moment before he switched off the phone and I found myself blurting out, "By the way, it's my birthday." But I'm sure he didn’t hear.

  I collected the keys from reception and started to walk towards the tube station. On the way I found myself pulled into a small bakery by the temptation of a cup of tea and a slice of 'birthday' cake. It was also a chance to phone mum. I didn’t know why but I hadn’t wanted to speak to her whilst I was at Alexander’s.

  The phone rang several times before she answered it.

  "Hello, mum," I said in my most happy voice.

  "Charlotte! Oh, I'd started to get worried. Where have you been? I thought you might have called."

  "I went away for a few days and then work’s been really busy," I offered lamely.

  "Did you get my card?"

  "Yes, thanks. That's why I'm ringing, to say thank you," I lied.

  "That's alright, sweetie. I thought it better than sending you something you might not like."

  I had no idea what she sent me but I guessed it was vouchers.

  "Are you doing anything nice for your birthday?" I knew that what she was really asking me was whether or not I had managed to get myself a date for the evening.

  "No, not really." I sighed. "Monday's not really the best day to get people out and about."

  "No, I suppose not," she said, obviously running out of things to say. I could almost hear her panic welling as she searched around for something else to say. Anything. Anything that might disprove that we had drifted apart in the last year and were now little more than strangers.

  "How's work?" she asked.

  "Well, you know - busy." I had tried to explain what I did but she has refused to understand, waving it away with the stock comment,

  "Oh, it's all above my head, sweetie. We're just so proud of you, you know."

  "Yeah, mum, I know." I stabbed the cake with my fork.

  She hesitated before asking her next stock question. “Have you met anyone nice yet?”

  “No, mum!” I sighed. “No one special. Look, sorry, I've got to go, my bus is coming. I'll talk later, yeah?"

  "Okay, sweetie. Well have a nice relaxing evening then. Love you. Look after yourself."

  "Yep. Love you too."

  All the way home, I thought about why I hadn’t told mum about meeting Alexander. I try to work out who he is to me. More importantly, who I am to him.

  Chapter Three: The Academy

  Alexander had left early for a business meeting in Paris. He had packed the night before with his usual efficiency and snuck out whilst I still slept. It was the first time I had woken to find him gone, and even though I knew it was just a temporary measure, it lodged in me the unshakeable fear that one day, he would be gone for good.

  I relied on routine to get me on the tube, coffee in hand. It was only a ten-minute journey to the office, but it was ten minutes of extreme survival so that by the time you arrived, you felt like you’d undergone some kind of intense mental and physical workout.

  I looked at my reflection in the tube window, hoping that the high collared kitty-bow blouse would adequately hide the shadows of the bruises, which had faded over the week. Alexander hadn’t mentioned them, but I had caught the look of intellectual curiosity in his eye when we had made love earlier in the week. His fingers had lingered over them momentarily, almost as if he had been surprised to see them. My period had prevented any further scrutiny as I headed to bed in pyjamas and a clear attitude that my body was off limits to anybody other than Mother Nature – despite Alexander’s sour mood.

  He had left no messages of love in his absence. No cute post-it-notes to the fridge wishing away the hours. That wasn’t Alexander’s style. And as much as I wished it were, I was glad that it wasn’t. I spent the rest of my journey both courting and pushing away the image of Alexander in some Parisian brothel – it was a thought that brought about an equal measure of insane jealousy and desire.

  After reaching my stop, I elbowed my way through the body of suits and watched the descending escalator with an idle curiosity. London was full of pretty people. Every eye-full promised something alluring or curious. I had made it a game to imagine them interwoven into one of Alexander’s films. No narrative, just a photographic still of them and me doing something wicked, or divine. Sometimes, one of my subjects would cast a look back at me that suggested they’d read my thoughts – or maybe that they too were playing the, ‘How I’d fuck you’ game. When it happened – when that connection was made, something ran between us that made us more than human. Then they were gone. Replaced by another.

  The rain had fallen heavily enough to create a general sense of well-rehearsed chaos. I dodged umbrella spikes and disorientated head-dippers and finally made it to the office feeling miserable and wishing I was in Paris with Alexander.

  Curiously, Marcia arrived at the office in an usually deconstructed state. I scanned over her signs of unravelment; the scraped back hair, the lack of make-up, the flat shoes, and came to the conclusion that she was either ill, or sad. If I had been interested then I would have asked, but I wasn’t. There were plenty of people who were happy to take part in her pantomime, which apparently consisted mainly of the stage directions, ‘quiver lips, sigh heavily, and shed quiet tears publically.’ I watched it play out in front of me all morning with the same idle curiosity at seeing a Barbie doll cry.

  By eleven o clock, unable to stand the farce any longer, I picked up my coat and made an escape in the direction of the indie coffee store that was sandwiched between a vinyl record store and an old-school barbershop. Unlike the Starbucks under our offices, I was unlikely to bump into any of my colleagues and be forced to chatter.

  Putting my order in, I slipped my hand into my coat pocket to fish for change and my fingers found the hard edge of a postcard, which I knew had not been there prior to this morning. I tried to keep composure as I settled the transaction, despite my heart fluttering in anticipation of some whimsical love note. I challenged myself to wait, but the pull of hope was too strong and I resisted for as long as a single burning mouthful of latte before the note lay in front of me. I was to be disappointed. The whole thing was a sterile print of letters: some commercial card. As I read it, my first reaction was to stifle a disbelieving laugh. Then amusement turned to anger – and then melted into something else – something unable to be fully articulated. It was a feeling somewhere between humiliation and elated liberty, between shame and empowerment. I read the card several times over, trying to translate a message behind it until I finally came to accept that everything being communicated was on the surface of the card – no more, no less. It wasn’t a dare, or a curiosity, but a simple directive sent from Paris.

  Mistress Arabella.

  The London Academy of Punishment & Desire

  COVENT GARDEN: London

  15 Flowermarket Lane

  Learn to administer and receive pleasure beyond your darkest fantasy

  Workshops for singles or couples.

  www.mistressarabellasacademy.co.uk

  Scrawled across the top in Alexander’s handwriting was the simple information

  Charlotte, 2.30 Wednesday.

  I flipped the card over and placed it on the table, lest anyone near me should read it. I wondered how obvious my blush was. This wasn’t me – it wasn’t the kind of thing I did. What would happen if anybody found out? Alexander’s measured voice, cut through my thoughts – why woul
d anybody know?

  I snuck another look at the card and felt my heart quicken with a mixture of excitement and fear – maybe also revulsion. I looked at my watch. It was already midday. What would happen if I didn’t go? I packed hurriedly. I needed fresh air, a walk – maybe a bottle of wine. My hand trembled as I reached out for the card.

  Sunglasses on, collar up I knocked on the door. I was being ridiculous. A parody of some secret agent on a children’s cartoon. There was nothing to suggest to the outside world what the building was, or what went on behind its walls. It was simply a typical London door in a typical London street. The only hint at anything daring about the place was that the door had been painted an unashamed shade of red. I rang the buzzer. I didn’t need to introduce myself. A female voice came over the speaker, sounding as natural as a friendly invite in for tea – and that was exactly what it was. I headed up the stairs towards a daintily decorated parlour room. Afternoon tea was set out at a table, at which sat Mistress Arabella.

  She too was nothing like I had conjured in my imagination. Contrary to the mental image I had created, she was not wearing leather or PVC or any of the other aggressive costume; just a simple white blouse and fitted high-waisted black skirt. She could have been any other pretty office worker. She saw my bemused smile and cocked her eyebrow,

  “Not quite what you were expecting?” she asked, laughing.

  I let out a big sigh of relief and giggled. “No, not quite.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Please, sit and take tea.”

  I took of my coat and dumped my workbag, accepting her invite with hands that still trembled slightly. When the pretty china teacup rattled in its saucer, Arabella smiled reassuringly.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous of here, Charlotte. You’re perfectly safe. In fact you’re more than safe.” Arabella’s gaze fell onto my neck and I understood that like an expert in her field, she read the faded bruises. “It’s where I teach you to take control.”