Honeycote (8 page)

Initially, however, she would have to work whether she liked it or not. She needed money and contacts to put her plan into action, as a suitable husband was unlikely to find himself wandering up the dull, tree-lined street on the outskirts of Slough where she lived with her parents. Her father had his own butchery business, successful enough to have moved his family from the flat over the shop into a nice three-bedroomed semi, and he was proud of his pretty daughter, even her over-sharp tongue, which he put down to her cleverness. Kay had always had him wrapped around her finger, and at sixteen she wangled fees out of him for a smart London secretarial college and left school, ignoring her teachers’ wails of protest. Her mother once dared to point out mildly that they did office skills at the local tech; Kay didn’t think that even merited a response.

She got up at half past five every morning to get a complicated timetable of buses into Kensington. By careful observation of the other students, she had soon assumed an utterly convincing county mantle. She pushed her shoulder-length blonde hair back into an Alice band, bought the best imitation pearls she could find and trawled charity shops for navy cashmere. When all twinges of Slough had been eradicated from her accent, the transformation was complete. By studious application, she also emerged with breathtaking shorthand and typing speeds and so it was not surprising when she very quickly landed herself a job as a receptionist at an upmarket estate agent in Windsor.

Her skill at assessing clients’ needs was soon apparent, and before six months were up she was made a junior negotiator. Kay was delighted – not to find herself up a rung on the career ladder, but because there could be no better way to trap a wealthy husband than to show him around desirable residences, of which they had many on their books.

Now she had a salary, albeit a fairly basic one, Kay was able to embellish her image as the potentially perfect wife. Aided and abetted by the several pounds of glossy magazines that landed on her doormat each month, she assessed the right amount of highlights (just enough blonde to look natural, rigorously maintained every four weeks to avoid any hint of root), learned the power of artfully combining a few basic designer items with classic M&S and signed up for lessons in cookery, riding and driving, at which she was diabolical, fearless and lethal respectively. After passing her test first time, she bought herself a little convertible Golf GTI. She would have preferred a BMW, but the Golf provided maximum effect for minimum expenditure. It was classic and classy, and – if the James Bond movies were to be believed – there was no greater turn-on for a man than a leather-gloved blonde expertly handling a sports car. She perfected turning up at appointments just in the nick of time, screeching to a halt and sending fountains of gravel flying, then coolly emerging, one hand outstretched, the other clutching her second most expensive investment, a Mulberry briefcase.

She had several false starts in the great husband hunt. One already married candidate strung her along for nearly a year, assuring her divorce was imminent, until she laid down an ultimatum, upon which he promptly disappeared. Another time she came dangerously close, having even been for a wedding dress fitting in Beauchamp Place, when she discovered her intended was verging on bankruptcy and was marrying her in the misguided hope she’d get him out of it. Kay emerged unscathed, unmarried and secretly delighted that her disguise as a well-bred young county gel with a rich daddy was so convincing. Yet another turned out to be nastily violent when drunk and, skilled as Kay was with her make-up, the risk of a fractured jaw or a broken nose eventually outweighed the lure of the drunkard’s bank balance.

At thirty, horror of horrors, Kay had found herself a senior negotiator with her own secretary. She had a naturally shrewd and businesslike mind which made her drive a ruthless bargain, resulting in a sheaf of successful sales as the property market began to recover once again. Thus she found herself in the very position she had always eschewed: successful career girl – no, woman – whose working life threatened to take over, with no hint of a husband in sight.

Then one day a curt male voice on the telephone demanded to be shown round a particular Thameside property immediately. Intrigued by his assertiveness – Kay admired people who knew how to get their own way – she agreed to meet him in ten minutes. The house was one she coveted herself: newly built on an old site, it was equipped with every modern luxury but retained the charms of a mature garden, an old boathouse and magnificent terraces leading down to the river, where she could fondly imagine herself entertaining.

As she drove in through the electronically operated gates, and saw Lawrence Oakley standing proprietorially by the balustrades of the patio, looking across the gardens to the Thames glinting in the distance, she knew instinctively that this was her man, that he was neither married, bankrupt, drunken or violent, and that he would be unable to resist her charms. Once she’d decided to unleash them. His premier impression was to be that of a successful businesswoman. If she was to marry and be kept by him, it was important that he should always know what she was capable of; that she was perfectly able to look after herself; that she wasn’t some brainless Home Counties totty.

She shook him coolly by the hand, then led him round the property in a matter-of-fact manner, no gushing hyperbole, no unctuous grovelling, as she knew this was a man who could make up his own mind. When, at the end of the tour, Lawrence offered fifty grand less than the asking price, cash, yes or no by this time tomorrow, Kay gulped inwardly, knowing the vendors would jump at the offer, then smiled and said asking price or nothing and he could contact her at the office if he wanted to up his offer.

Later that afternoon, against his better judgement but intrigued, Lawrence went in and upped his offer by thirty thousand. Split the difference, said Kay, and you can have the keys next week.

Lawrence took her out for a drink to celebrate the deal and offered her a job on the spot. She took it.

He was a builder, or property developer, as he preferred to be called, and she was to negotiate the sales of twenty-five executive homes in a labyrinth of cul-de-sacs. In six weeks, she’d sold eighteen of them and had a pretty good idea of the sort of profit that was sitting in Lawrence’s pocket. A lot. She’d also ascertained, via snippets of gossip from his secretary, that he had a selection of pretty, interchangeable girlfriends whom he took to social functions and otherwise ignored. Things were boding well.

Lawrence wasn’t altogether attractive. Kay guessed he was thirty-five, but he looked forty. He had tight reddish-blond curls that were starting to thin, a pale, freckled complexion that flushed suddenly red when he was exerted, exalted or angry, and yellowing teeth with one ostentatiously gold crown. He was tall but with stick-thin legs and narrow shoulders that no amount of expensive tailoring could make imposing. Yet what he lacked in looks and stature he made up for in force of personality. Lawrence was driven and driving, motivated and motivating, energetic and energizing. One meeting with him and even the strong-minded Kay found herself wanting to sell the world on his behalf, despite knowing her cut would be minimal, for he had the knack of making people want to do things for him. It wasn’t charm, for he was singularly lacking in that. But he could paint a picture of an irresistible future that one instinctively wanted to be a part of.

When Kay sold the very last house, he took her out to dinner. Until now, she’d kept him very much at arm’s length. She knew he was impressed by her businesslike demeanour, her cool professionalism, but she’d performed as something of an automaton, never giving him a glimpse of the woman underneath the designer suits she could now afford to wear. But after three months of intensive research, Kay was entirely satisfied that he was the man for her. It was time for the armour to come off.

She chose her outfit carefully, for he was to witness a theatrical unveiling, and her costume would be instrumental to the effect. Over the softest, satin underwear and sheer stockings, she drew a black silk-jersey dress. From the front, it looked perfectly demure: straight-sleeved, slash-necked, it clung softly to just above the knee. But the back was breathtaking, plunging in a spectacular V to the base of her spine, from where a row of tiny covered buttons marched in a straight line down to the hem. It was a dress few people could wear, as only the smallest, tautest, pertest buttocks could do it justice, but Kay knew, from rigorous dieting, that there was not an ounce of spare flesh on her. Over it, to divert suspicion and just in case she bottled out, she wore a black velvet jacket. Her only concession to colour was a shocking pink chiffon scarf wound carelessly round her neck

Lawrence had chosen a popular waterside restaurant on the Thames, and though it was only early May it was warm enough for them to drink champagne on the terrace. Kay kept her jacket on, suddenly and uncharacteristically nervous, while Lawrence ordered dinner from the waiter without referring to her once. That didn’t bother her; she was hardly a feminist, and besides, she trusted Lawrence’s choice. His money would have taught him what were the finer things in life. She didn’t mind that either. After all, she’d had to learn herself.

The meal was perfect. They had fresh, young spears of asparagus, the first of the season, which Lawrence wolfed, eating all the accompanying brown bread, and Kay savoured appreciatively. Then pretty pink noisettes of lamb with tiny new potatoes, after which Lawrence pushed aside his plate, filled up both their glasses and professed he wanted to talk business. The waiter whisked away their plates and anxiously proffered a dessert menu beautifully handwritten on cream parchment. Lawrence waved it away.

‘Raspberries and cream for the lady. And two glasses of Beaumes de Venise. And we’ll have coffee by the fire.’ He turned to look at Kay. ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Kay raised an eyebrow playfully and smiled, raising her glass to her lips. It was a tauntingly suggestive move, and she could see it had taken Lawrence slightly by surprise. He outlined his proposal nevertheless.

‘I’ve got five other projects on the go. Two holiday complexes, a school I’ve converted into flats, a small shopping arcade and an estate of luxury starter homes. They’re all due for completion over the next year. I’ve got sales negotiators lined up for each of them, of course. But they’re scattered all over the country and, frankly, I want to spend my time moving on to future projects, not messing about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. I need someone to oversee all the sales, make sure prices and targets are being met…’

He trailed off and looked at Kay, who nodded her interest and took another sip of wine.

‘You would be my eyes and ears. I’d still be making the decisions – you’re not experienced enough to take full responsibility. But you’ve definitely got what it takes to frighten the underlings into proving themselves. That’s what I haven’t got time to do.’

Kay’s raspberries arrived and she spooned them up singly and carefully, listening politely to Lawrence. The sweet, sticky Muscat oozed down her throat and gave her the courage for what she was about to do. When she’d finished, Lawrence guided her into the hotel lounge, where she sank into a glorious tapestry-covered sofa by the warmth of a roaring fire. The heat allowed her to slip out of her jacket, and she leaned back on to the velvet cushions, the inky-black silk of her dress slithering and draping itself to great effect over her limbs. She toyed carelessly with the ends of her scarf, winding them round her fingers, allowing herself to seem sensuously preoccupied.

. She saw Lawrence’s eyes flicker over her, and again the surprise registered in his eyes. His voice thickened slightly, whether from the drink or desire she could not tell, but he placed his arm very casually along the back of the sofa. He met her gaze and smiled a wolfish grin.

‘You’re being very quiet. I know what you want to know. How much?’ He leaned in towards her. ‘You tell me. And I’ll throw in a BMW.’ He waved a finger. ‘But remember. Don’t show yourself up by being greedy. You tell me what you think’s fair.’

Kay paused. This was the moment she needed maximum effect. She leaned forward to the low, carved oak coffee table and poured a little splash of cream into her coffee, allowing Lawrence the sight of her smooth golden back. She stirred the spoon round twice in her coffee, then sank back into the cushions and smiled across at him.

‘I’m not interested.’

Lawrence had barely recovered from what was one of the most erotic sights he’d seen in his life – and God knows he’d paid for a few – and he thought he’d misheard.

‘What?’

Kay said it again and Lawrence felt the blood rush to his face. He was floored, unusually for him, and he hoped she wasn’t going to try to make a fool of him.

‘Look, there’s no point in playing hard to get. I’ve said name your price; there’s plenty of others I could call – ’

‘I’m not interested. I’m getting married.’

Lawrence was puzzled. He couldn’t remember seeing Kay with a man, or mentioning one, or any gossip from the rest of the staff. He smiled. ‘Congratulations. Anyone I know?’

Her green eyes glittered in the firelight as she leaned towards him and whispered one word in his ear: ‘You.’

Thus Lawrence found himself outmanoeuvred for the first time in his life. On this occasion, however, he didn’t mind. He understood the terms of the deal perfectly. And he regained the upper hand by taking Kay to bed that very evening, where she was surprisingly passive and unimaginative. She’d shown neither resistance nor enthusiasm when he’d bound her wrists with the silk scarf she’d been wearing. Never mind, he could teach her what he liked, and what she didn’t want to do for him he’d get elsewhere. At least by screwing her she’d lost the advantage, and he’d make sure she never gained it again.

That night he spent five minutes – as much thought as he ever gave to anything – debating the wisdom of what he was about to do. He knew it was time to get married and he wanted an equal, albeit one he could control. And he wanted someone who would take an interest in his next project – his most ambitious yet. Kay met all the criteria. Not only that, he felt sure her genes would dominate and she would give him beautiful children. There was no point to any of it if he had no one to hand it on to, and time was marching on. He fell asleep with his mind made up.