The dinner had been excellent. Cheryl Hascombe, Harold Masters, and Dermot Cairns were standing before the huge fireplace in the library, sipping brandy. Cara DiGiacomo had left the room to make a telephone call.
“Harold?”
“Yes, Cheryl?”
“Could I have my skirt back now, please?”
Masters smiled.
“No, dear. I’m afraid you look far too alluring just as you are for us to give up this splendid moment quite yet.”
“Oh. Just thought I’d ask.”
Cheryl’s green turtleneck was short enough to reveal her midriff above her full-cut, white cotton panties. She filled them admirably, her pert bottom protruding proudly, stretching the fabric in all the right places. Masters let his eyes linger there for a moment.
“You see, Cairns, it rather makes my point, doesn’t it? The thesis I was advancing to you earlier, while dear Cheryl was being spanked out in the barn?”
“I’m not sure I quite understand, Harold.”
“The point about subtlety, Dermot. The point that it’s far, far more sexy to see Dr. Hascombe standing here with us in her underwear than to witness some awful floor show in which a naked showgirl with a huge bust squirms and gyrates around a pole sticking her bottom out.”
“Ah. You have a point there.”
“Especially as Dr. Hascombe is still wearing her high heels, and our little get-together this evening still retains a strong element of formality.”
Cheryl smiled. Masters went on,
“For example, do you remember that fellow you treated, oh, must be ten years ago, chairman of that big publishing house in the city? Rented apartments to low-income tenants? Fellow with the sexual dysfunction?”
“Oh, him. Yes, how could I forget? Do you still have that famous videotape?”
“Of course. It was the first one, the one that got us started. I’d never get rid of that one. Anyway, the reason I mentioned it is that whole scenario with the administrative assistant was far sexier than anything you could see in a strip club. In my opinion, anyway.”
Cairns agreed, animatedly nodding his head and resuming his habitual grin.
“Perhaps we should take a look at it again?”
“Any objection, Cheryl?”
“Provided that I am no longer the center of attention, gentlemen, I would be delighted. But of course I won’t really know, will I, until I have seen it?”
“Trust me, Cheryl, trust me.”
Masters led the others into an adjacent room with a huge bank of electronic equipment covering the far wall. The other walls had floor to ceiling shelving that was crammed with videotapes, CD-ROMs, and DVDs. The video screen was the largest Cheryl had ever seen. She was not surprised to see that the large leather chairs arranged in a semi-circle before the screen were very comfortable and, obviously, extremely expensive.
Briggs appeared from somewhere and began to twirl knobs and adjust sliding controls with an air of intense concentration. A larger-than-life scene sprang into view on the screen together with the resonant bass hum of a state-of-the-art sound system.
It’s an executive boardroom in the city somewhere. Up on the umpteenth floor. Half a dozen impeccably well-attired men and women are sitting around the large mahogany table. An expressionless young woman enters. She’s carrying a stack of files, which she hands dutifully to the chairman, who smiles and thanks her. He’s in his sixties, average height and build, with iron-gray hair.
“Just like you!” put in Cheryl Hascombe.
“I’m nowhere near as old as him!” replied Masters, with some warmth. “But, please, no more interruptions! Just watch!”
The woman leaves unobtrusively. The chairman watches her as she walks the length of the long room toward the door. She is tall and well-proportioned. Her straw-colored hair is a long cascade of curls. Her business suit is lime green, the skirt quite short. Her high heels and the skirt emphasize her long legs as she strides away, her hair bouncing attractively. The chairman calls to her as she reaches the door.
“Ms. Fairbairn!”
His deep voice boomed over Masters’ sound system.
“Yes, Mr. Sutcliffe?”
She looks at him attentively over the top of her eyeglasses, which are perched on the end of her nose.
“It’s nearly three o’clock. Do you have any meetings this afternoon? Any appointments?”
“No, Mr. Sutcliffe. I’ll be taking my night class in accounting at seven, but there’s nothing pressing before then.”
“Good. Then I wondered if we might have an hour of your time here in the boardroom this afternoon.”
She raises her eyebrows slightly and looks blankly at him.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Sutcliffe. May I ask what you would like me to do? I mean, do I need to fetch anything from my office downstairs?”
“No. Oh, wait a minute, yes. We need some sort of pointer, two or three feet long, what do you call it? For pointing things out on a chart at a sales meeting, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure I can find something suitable.”
As she leaves the room Sutcliffe beams at the others. The camera is following the significant action, panning from the door closing behind the young woman to the chairman and focusing in on him, just like a commercial movie.
“She really is rather fine, isn’t she, gentlemen?”
“Hey! Ladies too!” puts in one of the women present.
“Oops. Sorry, Frances. I meant, ladies and gentlemen.”
Murmurs of approval. One of the men looks uncomfortable. He’s large and fit, thirtyish, probably played football in college – but maybe had a decent, though not stellar, GPA anyway.
“What’s the matter with you, Matthews?”
“Nothing at all, sir, really.”
“Good. Then why don’t you go over to the wall safe, please, and let me know how much money we have on hand in the cash drawer under the document files.”
He throws keys to the young man, who fields them expertly and busies himself at the wall safe halfway along one of the long walls. Riffling through stacks of bills, he says:
“As an approximation, sir, I’d say something a little over seventeen thousand dollars.”
“Ha. I would have guessed about twenty. Come to think of it, I can’t remember when we last had occasion to draw from it. Anyone remember?”
The others present shake their heads.
“Never mind. It should be sufficient for what I have in mind, at any rate. Bring it over here, Matthews. Just stack it all on the table.”
A telephone on a nearby credenza chirps softly.
“Pick it up, please, Jenkins.”
Jenkins is also young, but thin and balding. He clearly did not play any kind of sports in college, though he may have graduated with Honors from an excellent school. He listens, holds the phone away from his ear, and talks to Sutcliffe.
“It’s Ms. Fairbairn, sir. All she can find is a wooden yardstick. She wants to know if that will do.”
Sutcliffe laughs aloud.
“Ha! It’s perfect! Oh, yes, just the very thing. Tell her to bring it up right away.”
Ms. Fairbairn enters the room and, in response to Sutcliffe’s signal, places the yardstick on the table. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the money.
“Please sit down, Ms. Fairbairn.”
He gestures to a large leather couch near the foot of the table. She seats herself and crosses her legs rather elegantly. Sutcliffe continues,
“Matthews, go and lock the door, would you, please? You have the key, it’s on the same ring as the others.”
Frowning slightly, Matthews goes over to the door as Sutcliffe goes on,
“What do we pay you, Ms. Fairbairn? And what’s your first name, anyway?”
“A little under forty thousand a year, sir. And it’s Samantha.”
“Well, Samantha. We would like to offer you some money, perhaps ten or fifteen thousand dollars or so, for your services over the next hour.”
Samantha Fairbairn is looking mildly stunned.
“Mr. Sutcliffe, I can’t imagine what I could possibly do to merit that kind of remuneration.”
Sutcliffe thinks to himself, I guess nothing fazes you much, you pretty young thing! He continues, aloud,
“I would like to ask you to undertake a series of small tasks. I’ll explain each one as we get to it, and you can consider them one at a time. Does that sound agreeable? You can accept or refuse any or all of these little assignments, as you choose.”
She frowns thoughtfully, then looks up. Her expression is carefully controlled.
“I’m always open to potential business opportunities, Mr. Sutcliffe. I don’t want to spend the whole of my career in the research department.”
My, you are a cool little opportunist, aren’t you, Ms. Samantha Fairbairn? Certainly explains why you’re hitched up on the sly with that oily snake Matthews. Jeffrey Matthews, the high-flying young executive who wants to save the company money by turning our low-income tenants out on the street. And he had the nerve to tell me earlier that his girl friend (Samantha here, though he doesn’t know I know that) agrees with him entirely on this innovative plan of his. This is really going to be interesting.
Sutcliffe gets up and fiddles with the climate control unit on the wall.
“Something wrong with the air conditioning today. If no-one minds, I’m going to remove my jacket.”
As he does so the other men follow his example.
“Ladies, please feel free to take your jackets off, also.”
The two middle-aged women present smile at each other knowingly, then take off their jackets and drape them on the backs of their chairs.
“You too, Ms. Fairbairn, please.”
