I liked Greta. I liked her a lot. Officially, she was Simon Hardy's personal assistant, but he used to 'lend' her to me when I needed a spare pair of hands. Simon had founded the business, and he or his family still owned the majority of the company's shares. But Simon didn't really do that much anymore. At least not on a day-to-day basis. Simon was on the glidepath to retirement. And Greta was easily bored.
The business had started with Simon obtaining distribution agencies for a number of specialist catering equipment brands. And then, over the years, the business had grown to incorporate commercial kitchen design, equipment supply, training, and equipment maintenance - although the growth was more opportunistic than deliberate and planned. That's why Simon had brought me in: to 'tidy things up' in preparation for some kind of sale.
It was towards the end of a sunny afternoon, and I was working on my own in one of the small meeting rooms when Greta came into the room and pulled up her skirt. She didn't pull it up all the way, but she pulled it up more than far enough.
'What do you think?' she said.
'What do I think? What am I supposed to think?' I asked.
'Crystal has me doing exercises. They're supposed to tone my thighs.'
'Crystal? Who's Crystal? Your personal trainer?'
'The au pair. But she knows about this stuff. She goes to the gym for an hour or so on Mondays and Thursdays - on her way to collect the kids from school.'
'Your thighs look pretty good to me,' I said. 'But I think if someone came in here at the moment, they might get the wrong idea.'
Greta smiled and slowly put her skirt back to where it should have been. 'Perhaps I need to keep doing the exercises for a bit longer,' she said.
The next time that I was shown Greta's thighs was when we were having a casual lunch at The Pear Tree. It was a sunny day, and we had been lucky enough to snaffle a table out in the courtyard. After looking around the courtyard, Greta pushed her chair back from the table and hoisted her skirt. This time, she hoisted it high enough for me to get a peep of her knickers. 'What do you think?' she said. I told her that it certainly looked as if she had been doing her exercises. She smiled and nodded and then pushed her skirt back down just in time to deprive the approaching waiter of a flash of her shapely pins.
We were back at The Pear Tree the following week - this time we were with Simon.
'I had a visit from Louise,' Simon said. (Louise Nuthall was one of the company's two non-executive directors.) 'She's been talking with one of the chaps at CWT. They're keen to talk about the possibility of merging our service operations. And maybe the training units too.'
'Merging or taking over?' I said.
'Well ... a takeover really. They would buy ours and merge it with theirs. I'm thinking that the agency agreements would probably need to be in there too.'
I nodded. 'Yes. That tends to be their modus operandi.'
'It's early days,' Simon said. 'I wondered if we could just talk through the pros and cons.'
'Well ... from their point of view, it makes perfect sense,' I said. 'They get a more than useful chunk of the market and eliminate a competitor all in one move. From your point of view, it really just comes down to what they are prepared to pay. I assume that they will want to structure something around a chunk of change up front and then an earn-out over two or three years. They might even be cheeky enough to try for four years. But I'd try and push for two years. Who knows where the world will be in three or four years' time?'
'What would we do about Gerry's team?'
'Well, there wouldn't be a lot of point in them buying that part of the business. They already have their own design team. And you can't really sell that kind of talent. Slavery is rather frowned upon these days. But you could help Gerry's team to set up as an independent. In fact, I think Gerry might go for that.'
'And what about you?' Simon asked. 'You wouldn't want to go to CWT, would you?'
'I'm sure that CWT will understand that you'll need some assistance in financing a redundancy or two,' I said.
Simon nodded, although he still looked a tad worried. 'You and I should get together with Louise,' he said. 'Maybe dinner. And perhaps you should be there too,' he said to Greta.
At Simon's request, Greta booked a table at The Sphere. I remember thinking: Gosh, Simon's spending the money already. But I wasn't about to object. The Sphere had just been awarded a second Michelin Star.
Louise was late arriving and, by the time she did arrive, we had already skittled the first bottle of wine. Simon seemed a bit more relaxed after that.
The meeting was productive and the meal was excellent. After dinner, Louise had a car coming to pick her up and she said that she'd get her driver to drop Simon off at the station. That just left Greta and me.
'So ... that's how it's done,' Greta said. 'That's how businesses are bought and sold. That's how people's lives are changed.'
'A few more steps yet,' I said. 'But, yes. Pretty much. Once you have a willing buyer and a willing seller.' And then I had a thought. 'Do you fancy seeing who's playing at The Dragon's Den?' I asked. And so, although I didn't realise it at the time, we walked out of a business meeting and set off on our first date.
There was quite a queue outside The Dragon's Den. The Cawley Quintet was playing. I made my way to the head of the queue and told the doorman that we were friends of Dennis Ashman. And just in case the doorman didn't know who Dennis Ashman was, I pointed to the baritone sax player on the poster. The doorman looked at us and half smiled, as if to say: 'Oh, yeah?' But he was an older guy and so was I. He wasn't going to leave us out on the pavement at ten-thirty at night, was he?
'I think that we had better stick to wine,' I said when we got downstairs. Greta agreed.
If you've never heard the Cawley Quintet, the guys are worth a listen. Piano, bass, drums, baritone sax, and trombone. European-style modern jazz - but still accessible. And Dennis Ashman did seem to remember me - although I'm not sure that he knew from where.
About halfway through the bottle of surprisingly-good sauvignon blanc, I got cheeky and asked Greta how here thigh exercises were going. The club was crowded. But she pulled up her skirt. 'You tell me,' she said.
'Well, they look all right,' I told her. 'Although firmness is a matter of touch.'
'Then touch them,' she said. So I did. And she kissed me.
At that stage, there was still a little wine left. But once the wine was gone, so were we.
'And now?' Greta said, once we were outside.
'Maybe a bit of a walk?' I suggested.
We walked a hundred yards, metres, whatever, along the street, and then Greta stopped and kissed me again. There was a doorway. I think it was the doorway of a shop that sold antique books. I can't be sure. I gently pushed Greta back into the recess and up against the door and reached down and lifted her skirt. I remember being relieved to discover that she was wearing stockings rather than tights.
'I should warn you that it has been a while since I shaved,' she said.
'Good.'
'Good?'
'Yes. Good.'
'And, just so you know, I hate the word pussy and I'm not really a big fan of the word cunt.'
'I'll try to remember,' I said. She nodded. And I pushed the gusset of her knickers to one side and found her slippery valley. She was already wet, wet, wet.
I must confess that my brain was in full multi-tasking mode. Had you asked me, earlier in the evening, if any of this would be happening, I would have told you: Not in a million years. But, clearly, it was. A little before a quarter to midnight on a Tuesday evening, in the conveniently recessed doorway of an up-market shop, on a not-unbusy West End street, one part of my brain was focussed on finger-fucking a woman who was someone else's wife and the mother of two. At the same time, another part of my brain was wondering what to do next. I briefly wondered if I should break off, hail a cab, and take Greta back to my place. But then she gave every indication that she was coming to the boil.
And then, in yet another corner of my brain, there were suddenly snatches of a lyric from long ago: The runaway train went over the hill and she blew; the runaway train went over the hill and she blew ... I put my mouth over Greta's to stifle as much sound as I could. But enough still managed to sneak out to amuse - and perhaps inspire - a passing couple who cheered and giggled.
For several minutes, we just stood there in the doorway, holding each other and exchanging gentle kisses. And then I said: 'What now?'
'I suppose that I should be going home,' Greta said.
'Suppose?'
'Well ... I know I should be going home.'
I hailed a cab; we had one last kiss; and I sent Greta on her way.
When I arrived home, a little after midnight, the cat was waiting for me. 'Well ... that was an interesting evening, Harold,' I told him. 'Not at all what I was expecting. Greta. Have I mentioned her? I think I might have. Oh ... one slight problem: Greta hates pussy. But I think she might make an exception for you.' I got myself a tall glass of sparkling water and headed up to bed. Harold followed me and settled himself in while I went off to use the bathroom.
