On a wet Wednesday afternoon
Two strangers shelter from a rainstorm in a pub
He splashed across the gravel car park, catching every dip and puddle, and arrived at the pub entrance with soaking feet. They matched the rest of him. The sudden downpour had been violent. Jeans stuck to his legs and leather jacket dripping, his makeshift newspaper rain hat flopped around his head. He made his way to the bar where his bedraggled appearance raised a laugh from behind the counter.
"See you found the rain then," was the barman's smart comment as he polished glasses.
"Nothing gets past you." The man looked around the old coaching inn. A vast room with exposed beams and a flagstone floor, as befitted a stopping off point on the old London to Oxford road. Wednesday lunchtime and the place was empty. "Was it your comedy patter that emptied the place, Charlie?"
"No, they all pissed off just before it pissed down. I was thinking of closing up early. It will be like this all afternoon." They looked out of the window to see rain bouncing a foot high off the pavement. "What idiot would venture out in this?" Charlie grinned again.
"I don't come here for the ambience. I'll have a pint of Guinness, if you can shift yourself," the man complained. The good-natured abuse started the first time he walked into the place and became the only way they could address each other. The man took the first quarter of his pint in two gulps and looked for a seat. He heard a crackle and noticed a small wood fire in the hearth. "You've lit the fire today?"
"You are pretty sharp yourself. It might be July, but tell that to the weather. Heat wave for four days and then this. Global warming. Blah, Blah." Charlie was a skeptic, but even he had to concede it was all mucked up. "Besides, the lady was cold."
The man looked at the semi-circle of high-backed chairs around the hearth and saw her. Or rather he saw a slender bare arm, one leg crossed over the other, a shapely foot bouncing in the air. Its metronome rhythm drew him towards the chairs.
"Mind if I take a seat to dry off?" he asked when he was behind the woman.
He wanted her to turn, and he liked what he saw when she did. She could have been forty or fifty. Some women were clever with makeup. She had black curly, shoulder length hair, dark eyes and a wide sensuous mouth. Her caramel coloring, either an excellent tan or the product of Latin heritage. She wore a single string of pearls and matching earrings. Her full skirted light cotton dress ended below the knee, but two open buttons at the top and bottom promised as much as they hid.
She dampened his obvious interest. "You certainly need to; you look like a drowned rat," she laughed.
"I see you come from the same charm school as our barman friend." A grunt from the bar told him Charlie could hear their every word in the empty pub.
He made a pretense of trying every chair in the semi-circle as he worked his way towards her. As he went through his shtick, she took him in. Forty something, not yet gone to seed, but probably due more to luck than a careful diet. He had dirty blonde shoulder length hair almost touching the collar of his leather jacket. She had him pegged as a self-employed builder and something else. His demeanor gave him away. He was a chancer.
He settled next to her with an exaggerated "Ah, just right." He smiled, and she was caught unawares for a moment, then she rolled her eyes and went back to her glossy magazine.
He had laughing eyes. The kind of eyes her mother warned her about when she was a young girl dreamily watching a French singer on the TV. 'He's got bedroom eyes, you mean,' her mum admonished. 'It's so easy for men like that. One smile and girls are taking their own knickers off. Then they never see him again.'
She wondered if that was the tale of her own missing father. She did not need the attention of Mister Laughing Eyes. She stared absent-mindedly at an advert showing a well-dressed, confident, middle-aged woman opening the door of a Mercedes sports car. A heavy Rolex watch adorned her wrist. She sighed. That was the problem with aspirational advertising. It made you unhappy with your lot. It set up expectations you should do better.
The man was pretending to study the form in the racing section of his soggy newspaper. A pencil produced from behind his ear told her he was a keen student of the turf. He tried to look at the paper, but his eyes were drawn hypnotically to her foot, tapping silently in midair. She wore tan-coloured tights and black patent sling back shoes, with a peep toe, from which two red nails called to him. They were not work shoes. Not that she worked. He had her pegged as a well-preserved housewife, with a husband who did something in the city, only half an hour away by fast train. Kids were probably away at boarding school and she had nothing better to do than coffee mornings and charity work. And perhaps a risqué afternoon in the pub, in her four-inch heeled bedroom shoes. Drawing unwanted attention from unsuitable men.
She crossed her legs towards him, displaying a lot of shapely calf and he gave up the pretence. "Can I help you?" she challenged.
He was embarrassed, but not apologetic. "I was just studying the form," he said, waving his soggy newspaper.
Another eye roll dismissed his flimsy excuse. "You were studying the form all right." Her smile told him she was not as displeased as she pretended to be. "Shouldn't you be at work in the middle of the afternoon?" Her mild rebuke met its mark.
"I was on the way to the builder's merchant when the downpour started. I'll never get under the bridge. It will be a swimming pool down there by now." He was put out. "Anyway, don't you have a pie to bake or something? For when hubby gets home. Mrs....?"
She was not expecting his riposte and jumped to answer instead of rebuke him. "Err, Austin. I'm Mrs. Austin, Emma Austin," she repeated to convince herself as much as him.
He gave her the eyes again. "Very wise, Mrs. Austin. You can't be telling your real name to every strange man you meet in a pub."
"I don't make a habit of meeting strange men in a--"
He interrupted. "My name's Elliott." He held his hand out for her to shake.
She took it warily. "Elliott who?"
"George Elliott." He winked at her. "You can't be too careful, can you Mrs. Austin? Can I ask what Mr. Austin does for a living?"
She visibly puffed up before answering. "Crispin works for a prestigious international property agency. They find office space for banks and multinational firms. He's doing very well."
"I'm glad for you, Mrs. Austin. I think it's remarkable how he's overcome the handicap of having a name like Crispin." His laugh was unkind.
"You are a vulgar man, Mr. Elliott. I don't want to speak to you anymore." She crossed her legs the other way and pulled her dress down so only her ankle and below was showing. It did not matter. He was still looking at her as if she were naked.
"You are right. I apologise, Mrs. Austin. I should have treated a fellow property professional with more respect."
"Oh, you've got a few bedsits with tenants on benefits, then?" She could be nasty, too.
"Not exactly. But I have a property business that is rather unique. In fact, it might make a conversation starter for later at home, before he tucks into your pie." He smiled again, letting her know he was fully aware of his double entendre. "Would you like to know what it is?" He leaned conspiratorially close.
She was expecting a whiff of plaster or turps and was surprised by his subtle, expensive cologne. Mr. Elliott was not what he seemed. She looked at him anew. His leather jacket was an expensive brand. His shoes were good and his shirt was a fancy designer number, with double buttons at the collar and French cuffs with links through them. He wore the comfortable clothes of his youth, just upgraded to his better spending power. He leaned close to her ear. "I promise it will surprise you, Mrs. Austin."
She felt a knot in her stomach and her heart was beating faster. She was half expecting this chancer to kiss her, and she wasn't backing away from it. She heard herself saying, "It takes a lot to surprise me, Mr. Elliott." Why was she egging him on? The drink and the heat had robbed her of sensibility.
His lips were inches from her ear. He could smell the floral body lotion she'd applied that morning. "Mrs. Austin, I am a-"
"Do you folks want another drink before I close up this side and go to change a barrel?" The barman shouted from behind his taps.
"We'll have the same again, thank you, Charlie," said Mr. Elliott. He leaned closer so his lips were almost on her ear. The hairs rose on her arms. "I like Charlie, but I don't want him earwigging this." Then he sat back, waiting for their drinks to arrive.
She knew he'd hooked her. Appealing to her curiosity, then teasing her with the answer, and forcing her to have another drink with him to boot. She would have to keep her wits about her.
Charlie appeared with another Guinness and a gin and tonic on a tray. He collected their empties.
"I hope I can rely on your discretion, Charlie? My husband sometimes drinks in her. I would hate it to get back to him, I've been drinking with a strange man."
"You can rely on Charlie, Mrs. Austin. Here's a tenner for the drinks, and another for being such a charming host." He put the two notes on the tray.
Charlie smiled. "You were never in here, either of you." He walked away, chuckling to himself.
She pounced when he was out of earshot. "Okay, what do you do? I bet it's illegal."
He'd finished almost half a pint before he put his glass down and looked at her.
"My property business addresses a specific market." He mugged looked around the empty bar but still took the excuse to move his chair closer until it was touching hers. "You've heard of Airbnb, no doubt?"
"Off course I have. We used it to book a villa in the Algarve in spring."
"Well, I have a similar system, only I am booking accommodation for escorts."
It took her a moment to parse the information. "You mean you are offering accommodation to prostitutes?" He nodded. "You are a whoremongerer. You are running a bawdy house, Mr. Elliott!"
"Keep your voice down Mrs. Austin! No one has used the term whoremongerer since your silly novels. But yes, I offer accommodation to ladies who sell sex. Although I have had the odd booking from gigolos." He winked at her to make it even more salacious.
Her face felt like it was on fire, and her stomach was tied in knots. She took a large swig of her gin and tonic. 'How many gins were in this?' She knew the cause of her flush was what he'd admitted so brazenly. She'd come up against the rough side of life. It was shocking and exciting. "Shouldn't you be checking none of your bitches are holding out on you, Mr. Elliott?"
He laughed. "You've been watching too many American detective shows Mrs. Austin. All the workers are self-employed these days. I merely provide a venue. My renters may come to town for the day, or the week, for all I know. I never actually meet them."
"Then how do you get their money?" Her mind had moved on to the practicalities of the business.
"Just like Airbnb, the girls sign up, book online, and pay in advance. Most rooms rent for a day, it's cheaper than for half a day as the girls change the bedding themselves. At the end of the booking, a maid tidies up and collects the laundry."
"Some poor exploited wretch no doubt?"
"No, Stacey's boy has special needs, so she can't work days. Her mum looks after him while she cleans for me. Girl power." His smile was ironic.
She would not concede he was a trailblazer for women's independence. "But they work in hovels."
