Heaven Sent, page 4
Clemmie frowned. There was still something not quite right here. She caught a glimpse of the pile of mail the blonde woman had hurled carelessly on to the scruffy chaise longue. Several of the brightly coloured envelopes had pictures of long boots and leather gloves and other weird fetishy things and – no way! – were they PVC corsets? Clemmie squinted some more. Yes! She sucked in her breath.
At least half Number 19’s junk mail was clearly targeting a certain kind of industry.
Ker-ching! Like the final turn of a tumble lock, everything fell neatly into place.
Clemmie shook her head. ‘Look, I’m no prude, and I may be badly in need of a job, and what other people choose to do to earn a living is up to them – but I’m not going down this route.’
The blonde woman, who had settled into one of the armchairs and was indicating that Clemmie should also sit down, frowned. ‘Excuse me? Which route?’
‘Whatever this set-up is. However you describe it. You know: glamour shoots … adult films … escorts … After all, the video equipment – and those brochures …’
The blonde woman gurgled with throaty laughter. ‘Oh, bless you! How sweet! What a breath of fresh air! I’m so sorry to disappoint you …’ she composed herself with difficulty, re-crossing her endless legs, ‘and I know it must all seem a bit odd, but this isn’t a sleaze outfit. Far from it. You won’t find a single naked body on that camera. Sadly we do seem to get some rather odd mail – doesn’t everyone these days? But please sit down, Miss Coddle, and let me explain. Oh, and the Miss Coddle is far too formal – I’m sorry, it was remiss of me, but I didn’t make a note of your first name.’
‘Clemmie,’ Clemmie said, still rooted to the spot.
‘Lovely! Very pretty. It suits you. Short for Clementine?’
‘Yes.’
‘After the small orange or the Australian ditty?’
‘After Winston Churchill’s wife. My dad proposed to my mum in the grounds of Blenheim Palace.’
‘Really?’ The blonde woman raised perfectly sketched eyebrows. ‘How romantic. Now, Clemmie, please sit down and let me explain …’
Clemmie, making sure that the blue door hadn’t been locked behind her, perched tentatively on the edge of the second chair. Every instinct warned her that she should still just say thanks but no thanks and be heading back to the Peugeot. However, her curiosity was certainly aroused, and the blonde woman seemed friendly enough, and she did so need a job.
‘Do you have any objections to me smoking?’ The blonde woman paused in rifling through a small handbag which exactly matched the glossy boots. ‘I’ll quite understand if you do.’
Clemmie shook her head ‘Please go ahead. I’m not a member of the anti-smoking brigade. I have one sometimes myself in moments of drunken revelry. Not that I have many moments of drunken revelry, you understand,’ she added quickly, as this was possibly not the best thing to admit during an interview. ‘Oh no, I don’t want one now thank you. But please, go ahead.’
The blonde woman removed a tiny enamelled flip-top ashtray, a gold lighter and a packet of cigarettes with a foreign brand name from her bag, arranged them in front of her, then lit a long tipped cigarette and inhaled with relish.
‘Lovely.’ She batted huge eyelashes towards Clemmie. ‘And just help yourself if you feel the need. So – where were we? Oh, yes – the business.’
She settled back in her chair and explained in the husky, throaty voice that they were a Winterbrook-based company, and were looking for someone reasonably computer literate who could help keep records, input data, cover secretarial duties, book appointments, deal with correspondence, answer the phone and generally help out where and when needed.
‘In the good old days,’ the blonde woman chuckled, flicking ash into the ashtray, ‘I believe we’d have been allowed to advertise for a Girl Friday, but now with everything being so sickeningly PC we had to make the vacancy sound more bland and unilateral, but you get the drift?’
Clemmie nodded. A Girl Friday sounded OK to her. A Girl Monday to Friday was possibly even better from a fiscal point of view. As long as she remained upright and fully clothed.
Conveniently leaving out the details of her degree – she’d quickly learned that most would-be employers considered her to be woefully overqualified for the sort of jobs she applied for and rejected her on those grounds – she confirmed that she’d had wide experience in all the clerical fields mentioned and didn’t think she’d find any of it problematical.
‘We need someone straight away; we’ve been very badly let down by the last person we employed to cover our regular lady’s maternity leave. Are you available now?’
‘I am.’ Clemmie nodded. ‘I – er – left my last job yesterday.’
‘And you have references?’
Clemmie fiddled with the sleeves of her velvet jacket. ‘Some, yes. Not all of them are very recent. But,’ she looked up defiantly, ‘the ones I’ve got all say I’m honest and trustworthy and a pleasure to have around. And some even say I worked hard. Which I did. I just wasn’t suited to most of the jobs I’ve had. When I’m happy I’ll give a job a hundred per cent and more.’
‘And no one could ask for more than that, could they? Clemmie, if we choose to employ you, and if you choose to join us, then I’m sure we’ll be able to make up our own minds about you without worrying too much about references. We’re quite a liberal company – as I hope you’ll find out.’
Clemmie beamed. So far so good. ‘And what exactly do you do?’
‘Me personally? Or the company?’
‘Well, the company really.’
‘We’re in the entertainment industry. Sort of party planners. Leisure and pleasure. That sort of thing, but absolutely nothing tacky, I can assure you. My role is …’ she smiled sweetly, stowing away her smoking paraphernalia in her handbag, ‘mainly as a PA, I suppose you’d say. But I also have my own little business on the side which is why we need someone else in the office to cover for me when I’m busy elsewhere, and help me out when I’m in situ. Does it sound as if it would interest you?’
Party planning? Wasn’t that more or less what Amber did at Mitzi Blessing’s Hubble Bubble? And Amber said it was the best job ever and she absolutely loved it. This one probably wouldn’t involve knocking up mind-altering herbal recipes for pensioners parties or anything like that, but a job in the leisure industry would surely be a breeze after the Dovecote Surgery, wouldn’t it? And the blonde woman seemed pleasant enough so working with her would be a great deal better than working with Bunty the Bitch Woman. And it should fill the gap nicely until she’d made up her mind about the teaching thing.
Clemmie took a deep breath. ‘Actually it sounds very interesting indeed. Not that I’m exactly clear what it is you do, but it certainly doesn’t sound humdrum or routine.’
‘No one would ever call it that!’ The woman laughed throatily. ‘Now, Clemmie, I’m a great believer in first impressions and I like you, and I think we’d work well together. So, why don’t you come along to the main premises and have a look a round and get a feel for the whole thing? We can chat more, have a question-and-answer session on site, then you can make up your mind.’
Why not? Clemmie thought. Well, of course, there were a million reasons why not. She could hear Phoebe listing them inside her head.
‘I’d love to. Thank you.’
‘It’s not very far. Do you want to leave your car here and hop in with me?’
Lightning reflexes kicked in. She still had some sense of self-preservation and a few niggling doubts. Clemmie shook her head. ‘Maybe I should just follow you, is that OK?’
‘Fine by me. Let’s go.’
So, five minutes later, Clemmie was following the 4 × 4 away from the trading estate and along Winterbrook’s busy main street. They’d negotiated the roadworks, various sets of traffic lights and the normal mayhem of the busy market town’s new one-way system. It had given Clemmie plenty of time to realise that she’d missed out several vital parts of the rather odd interview.
Things like the name of the company, the name of the blonde woman, the location of the main office, the number of employees, the salary …
Clemmie frowned as the 4 × 4 indicated left at the next roundabout. Following suit, she tailed the blonde woman away from Winterbrook’s main shopping and office area, driving alongside the municipal park and out towards the new housing estates and the river. The trees in the park, a riot of autumnal colour, looked muted under their swathe of damp mist. The proximity of the river always made this part of Winterbrook clammy in winter and tropical in summer. Clemmie smiled to herself. How lovely if her new workplace – always assuming it was to be her new workplace – had a river view.
Yes, it looked hopeful. The 4 × 4 was turning away from the housing estates now, and picking up speed along narrow roads with high hedges and overhanging tangled branches. It was isolated and rural here, as Clemmie knew well from years of picnics on hot days. Very close to the river. Surely there were no offices of any sort on the outskirts of Winterbrook? It was all green belt. No one would be allowed to build anything industrial out here, would they?
Clemmie stopped humming along with Kasabian on the radio. What if the blonde woman wasn’t as pleasant as she pretended to be? The siren had said it wasn’t sleazy but still, maybe she was waiting to spring on her the true nature of the business. What if number 19 really was a front for the porn industry? Or what if it was even worse? Clemmie’s overactive imagination was running riot. What if she was being lured to some deserted spot to be drugged and bound and gagged and shipped off for the white slave trade? What if …
The 4 × 4 had disappeared round a sharp bend and, unable to reverse, Clemmie followed, pretty sure now she’d turn and run as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
‘Oh – wow!’
The 4 × 4 had pulled up on a gravel drive in front of a sprawling mellow brick two-storey boathouse, lovingly renovated into a home, standing on what appeared to be a small isthmus. Mullioned windows, overhung with centuries-old gnarled wisteria, reflected the river as it curled and rushed around three sides of the boathouse, disappearing over a small foaming weir on the left, dancing up loamy banks and swirling the trailing branches of willow trees to the right. The back of the original building, Clemmie guessed, must have total river-access, possibly with slipways and sloping lawns and – whatever their business was – there was clearly a lot of money to be made in it.
‘Here we are!’ The blonde woman had erupted from the 4 × 4 and was beaming at Clemmie. ‘What do you think?’
Struggling from the Peugeot, Clemmie decided not to mention her earlier thoughts about sex traders at this point. However, she kept a firm grip on her car keys and her mobile phone, just in case.
‘I think it’s absolutely gorgeous. Is this really where the offices are?’
‘Offices in the house, workshops and storage sheds over there.’ With a flourish of her fur-coated arm the blonde woman indicated the red tiled roofs of several other equally pretty outbuildings fleetingly visible through the dancing willow branches. ‘Heavenly, isn’t it?’
It certainly was. Clemmie thought she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. If it looked this gorgeous now on a cold and grey October day, it must be positively stunning in summer.
‘Come along in.’ The woman teetered away on her high-heeled boots across the gravel, brandishing a front-door key. ‘You can get a real feel for the place inside.’ She unlocked the door and stood back. ‘After you.’
Clemmie stepped into a wide hallway, wonderfully snug and warm after the chill outside. All gleaming real wooden floors and walls, with an ancient coat stand, a sideboard almost buried beneath newspapers, old letters, and the general detritus of living, and dominated by a large crimson vase of mixed autumnal leaves, it was cosy, comfortable and very homely. As were the other rooms she managed to see through several open doors as the blonde woman ushered her through to the back of the house. Vague images of big mismatched chairs, lots of colourful cushions and a much-polished hotchpotch of old furniture flitted past her eyes.
‘This is where you’ll be working.’ The blonde woman opened a panelled oak door. ‘Always assuming you like the look of us of course. It’s a nice little office, with river views – well, you’d be hard pressed not to find river views here of course – all the latest office equipment and everything else on tap. I’ll show you the kitchen and the cloakroom and things in a mo. Look, why don’t you take a seat, Clemmie, and I’ll just pop upstairs and get rid of my coat and boots, then we can have a proper chat.’ She paused. ‘First impressions OK?’
Clemmie shook her head, gazing out of the long office window at the width of the river and the misty fields stretching away on the other side. It was like being on a boat. ‘Far, far more than OK. I don’t know what to say – it’s amazing … but how many other people work here?’
‘Daily, just the three of us – then we have a regular team of a dozen or so who come in when we have a special event on. You’ll meet them all soon, no doubt. This office will be your domain – I hope you’ll be all right working on your own when I’m away, although someone’ll always be popping in and out. As I mentioned, we live here too so there’s always someone on hand to answer those awkward little questions. Look, you nose around while I get changed then we’ll have a proper chat.’
‘Fine – thank you.’ Clemmie was still mesmerised by the view and the sheer splendour of the high-tech office, and bewildered by the scatter gun volley of additional information. ‘Er – yes, of course – um, I don’t know your name.’
‘Oh, sorry – I think the blonde is going to my head.’ She paused in the doorway and gave a theatrical wink. ‘I’m YaYa, love. YaYa Bordello.’
Chapter Four
Clemmie stared at the shut door, open-mouthed. What sort of name was YaYa Bordello?
Unless YaYa was some cute diminutive for Yvonne, and Bordello was as common a surname as Brown in some Mediterranean countries, it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? It was a porn star name if ever she’d heard one.
Which meant, Clemmie thought angrily, that this really could be some sleaze set-up! And YaYa might be recruiting! Had she lured Clemmie here to change her name to FiFi or Mimosa and writhe – writhe! – in front of the video camera with some bloke with a Village People moustache and leather underwear while really, really bad seventies music played in the background?
As her experience of blue movies was fairly limited – she’d only ever seen one, and that had been by accident at a drunken university party – she assumed this was what the entire adult film industry involved.
Right, she thought crossly, each to their own and all that, but it won’t involve me! No way! I’m off!
Seething at her simplicity, at being suckered in by YaYa’s plausibility, she yanked the door open. And screamed.
A long, furry streak shot past her feet.
Clemmie clutched her skirt against her legs as the huge rat – it had to be a water rat, being so close to the river – circled the office area, standing up on its hind legs and sniffing at things.
Jesus! she thought, can things get any worse? Let me get out of here – now!
Keeping one eye on the massive rat, she sidled through the door and collided heavily with someone coming in the other way.
‘Shit!’
‘Thanks,’ Clemmie said, muffled against the newcomer’s chest. ‘I was thinking much the same thing. If you’ll just let me get past, I’ll— ohmigod!’
‘Almost. But not quite.’ Guy Devlin stepped back and grinned down at her. ‘I’m Guy. And you are?’
‘Leaving.’
‘Nice to meet you, Leaving.’
Clemmie didn’t trust herself to say anything else. She’d gibber the moment she opened her mouth. Her brain was gibbering. Her whole body was gibbering.
Was she dreaming this? Had she fantasised so much about Guy Devlin that her brain had exploded and produced a mirage? Or, for some weird and wonderful reason, was this real and were she and Guy Devlin actually breathing the same air?
Clemmie closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. Guy Devlin was still there. He hadn’t dissolved or disintegrated, so he must be real … and twenty million times more sensational in the flesh than he’d ever been in her fantasies.
While the tall, dark and devastating remained the same, the fantasy really hadn’t accommodated the deep, warm voice, or the huge eyes which surely had to be embellished by eyeliner and mascara to get that effect … nor the skinny black jeans, or the sloppy black sweater, or the thin circle of ebony beads circling his throat, or the single small gold hoop earring, or the longish black hair which fell in silky layers over his collar and into those sensational eyes … or the sulky-sexy mouth, or the cheekbones, or the smile, or …
Aware that her mouth was open, Clemmie shut it with a snap.
‘I don’t believe you’re called Leaving,’ Guy was still smiling, ‘unless your parents were hippies and your surname is OnaJetPlane. Mind you, I had friends at school called Midsummer and Rhapsody. Harsh for boys.’
‘I’m Clemmie Coddle,’ Clemmie said, horribly aware that it sounded as if she were chewing a tissue. ‘And I am leaving.’
‘Shame.’ Guy shrugged. ‘Just when we were getting on so well. Are you a customer? I’m sorry, Steve usually keeps me abreast of bookings.’
Steve? Steve must be the third member of the team. YaYa had said there were three of them working here – and ‘customer’ and ‘bookings’ only compounded the flesh-films in Clemmie’s brain. Blimey! Of course! Steve was probably going to turn out to be the one with the droopy moustache and the leather underpants. Her co-star!
But what the hell was Guy Devlin doing mixed up in this? Surely he wasn’t in the porn industry too, was he? Unless it was a lucrative sideline. She didn’t know what the truth was but it all seemed very fishy indeed and she was obviously better off out of this crazy environment. Oh, God – Phoebe would definitely not believe any of this.
