LAID & BETRAYED (Getting wrong with Mr. Wright) Read online

  'My skirt?'

  He nodded. 'If you please.'

  'But…'

  'Before we lose the light.'

  His words whizzed through my brain like a charge of electricity and, even as I determined to shake my head and say no, I reached for the snap and lowered the zip. I wriggled my hips and my breasts faintly swayed as the skirt fell in a pink pool about my feet. It was warm in that sunny room, perspiration veneered the split in my bottom and my knickers were damp. I could smell my own arousal and realized with shame that the obscure pleasure of that moment came, not from any expectation of what might take place, but simply from exposing myself.

  'Very good,' he said.

  My pink knickers fitted snugly, the elastic stretching like a bridge from the supports of my hip bones in such a way that, had Mr Wright leaned forward, he would have got a glimpse of the dark little forest of hair nestling below.

  He adjusted the camera.

  'Those, too,' he said.

  His voice was a chant, whispering my own inner desires. Each time he asked for more, I gave more, my blouse, my skirt. I was on a slippery slide. There was no way to get off. I didn't want to get off.

  'Mr. Wright…'

  'The light, Grace, it's important.'

  'Can't you just…'

  He didn't reply. He adjusted his camera. I stood there, skinny and naked except for my pink knickers. He snapped his figures and I slid my thumbs into the elastic. I drew the damp material over my hips, revealing my pubic hair, over the round cheeks of my bottom and down my long legs. I pushed them to one side with my toe. I was naked. I was free. I felt terrified and I felt completely and totally alive.

  All rights reserved Chloë Thurlow 2012

  More information about me and my other books are at the end of this story.

  Laid & Betrayed

  Getting it wrong with Mr. Wright

  Laid

  Part I

  My exams finished at the end of July. Three days later, I was sitting in the office of Drew-Butler, the estate agents in Canterbury, studying the houses for sale on the computer. Father played golf with Peter Drew and, with his belief in hard work and discipline, I was spending a month of my holidays learning the art of the property business. I wasn't even being paid, but would earn a commission if I made a sale.

  My desk was adjacent to the main window and I felt like a dummy in a store as the shoppers and tourists wandered by. Most people in Canterbury are far too polite to stop and stare. But that Friday, the end of my first week, someone did stop, a man who shaded his eyes with his palms, not to study the photographs of the property for sale, but to get a better look at me. I turned away, and when I turned back again, he grinned and marched in the door.

  'Good morning,' he said, and glanced at his watch. 'Sorry, good afternoon.'

  I stood.

  'Sorry, yes,' I stammered. 'Can I help you?'

  'You bet.'

  He had a broad smile on his lips and a heavy bag on his shoulder. He wore white trousers, a blue shirt with too many buttons undone and a decidedly un-Canterbury-like gold chain nestled in the dark hair of his chest. He must have been almost forty, which seemed awfully old to me at the time, with twinkling amber eyes like a cat that settled on me with such intensity I turned the same shade of pink as my summer skirt.

  'There's a place in the window, Black Spires,' he continued. 'I'd like to take a look.'

  My armpits tingled and my brow was suddenly damp. I had not taken anyone to see a house on my own before. But there was no one else. Like anyone with any sense, Peter Drew was on holiday, and Mr. Butler was 'in conference' with Melinda McKinley, a young widow with a large piece of real estate she wanted to develop into luxury apartments with tennis on the roof. Robin, Mr. Butler, was the young partner in the business, unmarried, and, as far as I could see, totally under Melinda McKinley's spell. Before vanishing into his office he had held up a warning finger – just like my father – and told me he didn't want to be disturbed 'under any circumstances.'

  But this was an emergency. Black Spires was an old white elephant of a house outside the village of Wingham. It had been on the books for a long time and I knew they were desperate to sell the property.

  I looked back at the man with the open shirt.

  'Just a moment,' I said.

  He smiled broadly and I was conscious of him watching me cross the office and tap on Mr. Butler's door.

  As I poked my head into the room, Melinda McKinley recrossed her long legs and lowered the veil on her little black hat; she was as pale as a ghost with blue eyes and a wave of blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. Robin Butler sat back in his chair as if he had just been shot.

  'I told you…'

  'Someone wants to see Black Spires, and...'

  'Yes, yes, yes. Can you deal with that yourself, Grace, we're very busy.'

  'I haven't don't it before.'

  'Well, it's about time you did. Now, off you go.'

  I closed the door, then remembered, I didn't have the keys, and poked my head back inside the office again. Mr. Butler was holding them up, the keys dangling from the ring hooked over his finger. Melinda McKinley recrossed her legs again.

  'Always engage your brain before proceeding forward,' he said. 'You'll reach your destination far more quickly that way.'

  I wasn't sure what to say, but I knew that instant that if Mr. Butler had designs on the happy widow they weren't going anywhere. I took the keys, closed the door and followed the client out into the afternoon sunshine. We introduced ourselves as we crossed the road to the car park.

  'Grace Goode,' I said, extending my hand, which he shook.

  'Charlie Wright. Good to meet you,' he replied,

  He looked me up and down, as if I were the house he was intending to buy, then held the car door open for me. I stepped in and the sudden touch of his hand on my arm made me lurch forward against the steering wheel.

  'You alright?'

  'Yes, I'm fine, thank you.'

  'Not nervous, or anything?'

  'No, no, not at all.'

  He swung his bag on the back seat and I felt a perfect idiot as I repositioned the rear-view mirror. He buckled himself in beside me and pushed back his seat to get more leg room. I turned the ignition key, touched the accelerator and the engine throbbed with impatience. It was hot, a heat haze rising off the cement.

  I lowered the window to get some air as I joined the afternoon traffic.

  'Is that alright?' I said.

  'It's good for me,' he replied.

  I had only recently passed my test and drove slowly through the villages dotting the countryside, lips tightly closed, my hands at ten to two on the steering wheel. I could feel his eyes on me, on my neck with its splash of color, my bare thighs, on my breasts pushing against the fabric of my blouse. My body under his inspection grew sticky with embarrassment.

  As I changed gear he watched my legs dancing over the pedals. My skirt rose over my thighs and my breasts tingled. That morning, after my shower, I had put my bra on, stared at myself in the mirror, then I took it off again. I rolled my nipples between my fingers until the sting made me grip my teeth in bliss. With those buds smarting and raw, I wriggled into the smallest, skimpiest most immodest little white blouse in the drawer. Having lost my holiday, if there was one thing I wanted to do that month as an intern at Drew-Butler, it was sell a property and I had set out for work with butterflies in my tummy, determination in my step and a feeling that destiny was about to pay a visit.

  This was my chance. Be cool. Be grown up. I turned momentarily.

  'How do you like being an estate agent?' he asked.
<
br />   'It's only temporary,' I replied.

  'Ah, yes. The only permanence is change,' he observed, his deep voice like the Bishop who had once given out books and trophies on prize day.

  'I'm starting university after the summer.'

  'Very sensible. What're you going study?'

  'Literature,' I replied, and shrugged. 'All reading and dusty old books.'

  'Don't forget to stop and smell the roses, you've got to have a bit of fun as well.'

  'Don't worry, I intend to…'

  'Good for you,' he said and patted my leg.

  I swallowed hard and forced out a smile. It was my job to put the client at ease, but it was hard to know what to say. He had turned sideways in his seat and was openly examining my neck and breasts, so immodestly prominent with the seat belt dividing them. His eyes undressed me and the shameful thing was I didn't mind. My little fantasy before the bathroom mirror that morning wasn't exactly a first, it was becoming a ritual. There was a great big world out there. I was straining at the leash dying to plunge in at the deep end. Childhood is like a prison sentence. Sixth form was behind me and I felt like a freed slave sloughing off my shackles ready to run barefoot into the future. Father was an unreconstructed Victorian, the school he had sent me to was famous for its strict discipline, and working with Mr. Butler made me feel like a Bob Cratchit in the Scrooge's office in A Christmas Carol.

  As for my on/off boyfriend, Simon, that was definitively off. He had taken off to go surfing after a blazing row that had brought me to tears and had made Simon so angry I'd thought he was going to hit me. Like me, he had been at boarding school, but we had spent holidays hanging out together since we were fifteen, the kissing growing to… well, just about everything except actually doing it.

  It was Saturday afternoon. His parents were at a wedding in London and we were in his bedroom, my top off, the zip on my jeans down, his strong hands pulling at the denim, my legs crossed like we were in the midst of a bout of judo, at which I was a blue belt. He gave up and rolled off me.

  'I've had enough of this. What the hell's wrong with you?'

  'Nothing's wrong with me.'

  'Do you hate me?' He was snarling, his gums showing.

  'No, you know I don't.'

  'Then what the hell's going on?'

  'It's just not the right time.'

  'It's never the right time. You're just a pathetic little virgin. You enjoy being a cockteaser?'

  'You know that's not true.'

  'I know it is true. It's bloody dangerous, for one thing. You lead a guy on and then…just stop. I could have a heart attack or something.'

  'Simon…'

  'Forget it. Just go home, Grace. There's plenty more fish in the sea.'

  He stormed out of the room and I thought that was quite funny about the fish, seeing as he was going surfing.

  We turned a corner and I dropped a gear to climb Pedding Hill. Everything in all directions was green and growing, glossy with sunshine. August in Kent, the Garden of England. I couldn't imagine anywhere more beautiful.

  'It's lovely here,' Charlie Wright said, turning and gazing out at the landscape.

  'We're only an hour from London,' I informed him. 'Some people commute.'

  'How deadening is that?' he said.

  I grinned. Father commuted to his office in Lincoln's Inn every day, five days a week, forty-eight weeks a year; out on the 7.50, back on the 6.05, regular as the movements of the moon; holidays at the cottage in the Lake District – he didn't like abroad, too many foreigners – Christmas with Granny One, his mother, in Faversham, New Year's Eve with Granny Two, mum's mum, in Aberdeen. I had been bound by timetables and agendas, strictures and rules, a work program that had secured As in every exam and a place at Cambridge, my father's dream.

  The road meandered through apple orchards and strawberry fields. We passed a Saxon church with a flag hanging indolently on a pole, the flint of the walls like shiny eyes polished by the sunshine. On a hill, I slowed behind two cyclists, a boy in front, a girl in a white dress behind him. She stood on the pedals to get better traction and her dress blew up, showing her white knickers.

  'Wait, wait. Don't overtake,' he said.

  I stayed behind until the girl crested the hill and sat once more.

  'What a waste. Camera's in the back,' he tutted.

  The road swept down in a long sweeping curve. In the rush to get out of the office I had forgotten my sunglasses and the intense light made me squint as we left the shade and entered the sunlight. My back was wet, pressed against the seat. Flies tapped against the windscreen. We reached a hairpin bend at the bottom of the hill and I passed the sign to Black Spires.

  'Sorry, I missed the turn,' I said, and he shrugged,.

  'Don't worry about me, I'm enjoying myself.'

  I pulled into the entrance to a field, reversed out and followed an unsurfaced track I had never taken before. The hedgerows were full of wild flowers and the mature oaks and elms along the way gave the impression that we had travelled back to a slower age, a more serene time. The lane curved as it rose above meadows, before dipping down and ascending steeply to a circular plane where Black Spires sat on the summit. The rise in the land formed a natural defense.

  'There has been a building on this spot since the Renaissance,' I said, quoting the stats I'd studied in the office.

  'Any trouble with damp?'

  I wasn't sure what he meant. 'I'm sorry?' I said.

  'I mean, if it's that old?

  'No, no, it's been rebuilt many times. The present building's early Victorian.'

  'Fascinating.'

  I turned through the iron gates and the car crunched over a gravel drive edged by rhododendrons and shaded by sycamores. We got out and stood gazing up at the building with its spires and turrets, leaded windows and gargoyles with devilish faces.

  As we approached the door, I remembered the key and went back to the car to get it. The lock turned and he followed me through an entrance laid out with stone flags below an arcaded roof. The slit windows softened the light and a delicious chill rose from the floor and ran up my skirt. I should have been talking about the south-facing aspect, the cellar with its ancient artifacts, but Mr. Wright could see those things without me describing them and I discerned in his manner no desire for the mundane and prosaic. There was a tight feeling in my tummy and my dark hair felt heavy on my shoulders.

  He gazed around the entrance hall for just a moment and I gazed at him. Charlie Wright had the most striking eyes I had ever seen, like amber, like two creatures from the depths of a tropical sea. His features were solid, suntanned, his nose large and dominant, his lips full and sensual, his wavy dark hair flecked with silver strands that glimmered in the diffused light.

  Our eyes met and I trembled for some reason. My throat was dry and my breasts were betraying me as they pressed painfully against the thin fabric of my shirt.

  'Would you like to see the drawing room?' I asked.

  He was staring at my breasts. 'I want to see everything,' he replied, looking up, holding my eyes until I glanced away.

  I felt confused. Being alone with this stranger in this strange house seemed oddly romantic and I couldn't remember ever having been in a similar situation before. I didn't know what to expect, what to say, how to behave. All I did know was that I felt dreamy and light-headed.

  Mr. Wright was still gazing at me, measuring me as if for a new dress. My senses were drugged but, in the midst of my confusion, I felt sure there was a connection between us. Had we met before? Perhaps he was a friend of my father? I could think of no rational explanation for my confusion, but knew on some vague level there was a bond, a special reason why Charlie Wright had walked into the office that afternoon and why we were together in the entrance hall of Black Spires.

  He took a camera from his bag and held it up like a piece of evidence in court.

  'Shame I missed that girl on the bike,' he said.

  He took photographs as we made our
way through the house, but I got the feeling that he wasn't really looking at anything. He was looking at me. I was conscious after climbing the stairs and passing through the bedrooms that sweat was gumming my blouse to my back and the flush felt like fire on my neck and throat.

  After going downstairs, he suggested we go up again. He collected his bag and I led the way, my shoes tapping on the bare wood and echoing in my ears. We stood in the main bedroom overlooking the garden with its apple and pear trees. He took some shots through the window, then set up a laptop on a table and linked it with a long cord. He asked me to pose on one side of the frame. I knew that shooting into the light produces bad pictures, but when he showed me the images, I appeared with an intense expression, my body a silhouette surrounded by an aura of pale blue light. It was stunning: I looked like a different person, and when I looked back at Charlie Wright, I realized I was panting for breath.

  'You take a good picture.'

  'Really?'

  He nodded. 'You ever thought about modeling?'

  I shook my head. 'No, no. Never.'

  'Well, you never know.'

  He was smiling, staring at me, studying me like you'd study a still life in art class. The sun was passing through clouds and the light in the room was both hazy and dazzling like light through water. I remembered learning in some long distant class that in photography time does not exist except as a series of frozen moments arranged by some higher form of physics in which the person and the photograph are separated, not by time, but imagination.

  'Can I take another couple of shots?'

  'Course,' I gushed.

  I knew he was talking about taking shots of me, but I processed the question as if he wanted to take more shots of the room.

  He set up a video camera on a tripod. He spent a long time adjusting the lens, but then approached with his digital camera. He told me to stand at the side of the window with the sun lighting just one side of my face. The camera clicked and he changed angle. I had seen models in movies and you sort of know how to act, how to pose, how to move, how to make infinitesimal changes in your expression.