The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 02

THE SEEHOFER CHRONICLES.

THE MEMOIRS OF A COURTESAN -- Volume Two.

This is the second volume of the memories of British civil servant, Rebecca Seehofer as recorded in her journals and by the audio testimony as related to her biographer, Sybil Torricelli.

Rebecca's career spanned the late 1960s to 1980s. The dates following the chapter headings give the dates and locations of the incidents. So as not to contravene the Official Secrets Acts, names and locations have been changed as befitting a work of utter fiction.

Chapter 1 - A Question to Pose.

Good Friday, 18

th

April 2014.

Mount Pleasant Cottage, Southern England.

The long Easter weekend had finally arrived and Sybil Torricelli had spent the past few days with her grandmother. Rebecca Seehofer's home appeared bucolically spring-like despite the cool westerly wind that swept across the country. Becca had lit the wood burning stove that evening as the gusting air sucked the warmth from the interior of the old cottage.

"How's the hip, Gran?" asked Sybil, poking the fire so as to stir the glowing embers before tossing on another split log.

"Wonderful, I should have had it done years ago," declared the now sixty-eight-year old Becca.

Sybil had indeed noticed the transformation in her grandmother's health since having the artificial hip joint fitted. She was moving with an ease that appeared to have taken twenty years off her age and the grouchiness that Sybil associated with her grandmother had vanished along with the arthritic pain. Well, the grouchiness was mostly held in abeyance...

"Can I ask you a question, Gran?" Sybil turned to face Becca after closing the stove door. The soon to be twenty-two-year-old Sybil was Becca's nominated heir to her not insignificant estate.

"Why change the habit of a life time?" smiled Becca from the comfort of her armchair without glancing up from the news report she was reading on her tablet.

"Did you ever pose nude?"

The question prompted Becca to look up and peer over the top of her reading glasses. "Why the question, Sybil? I assume it has something to do with you."

"That's like so unfair!" decried Sybil.

"So why do you ask me?"

"Because Izzy has started modelling."

Isobel Torricelli was a year younger than Sybil and nearing the end of her engineering studies. She was also Sybil's cousin.

"She always was very pretty..."

"What are you sayin, Gran? That I'm like a minger?"

"I do wish you'd stop inserting unnecessary 'likes' in your sentences. You're going to be a teacher. You're no longer some gauche teenager. And you are very pretty... From the neck up. Rather zaftig elsewhere..." Typically, Becca Seehofer was painfully blunt.

Sybil had no idea what zaftig meant but onomatopoeically it sounded rotund. "It's not my fault I got the Torricelli fat gene and not the thin version like Izzy, nor the Seehofer skinny gene."

"No, you can't help what genetics gave you but you can the amount of calories you swallow."

"So I like eating! It isn't a crime!" Over the past eighteen months, principally since training to become a teacher, Sybil had piled on the pounds.

"So what sort of modelling is Isobel doing?" enquired the intrigued Becca.

"Not sure really. We haven't like spoken much in ages."

"You used to be very close."

"Yeah... Well... I've seen the spread she did for a magazine called

Peanuts

. I doubt if you've heard of it." Sybil walked quickly to the sideboard and picked up her cigarettes, a sure sign that she was agitated despite her assumed poker face.

"For once you're right, I haven't heard of it. What sort of publication is it? I assume it isn't to be found in the hobbies section at WH Smith?"

"It's a 'Lads' mag'. You know the sort... Soft porn, I suppose. It has pictures of girls, articles on sport and cars, the sort of stuff guys like to read and to... You know what guys do." She made a fisted jerking gesture with her hand. "The photos aren't that explicit. Well, that depends like on what you call explicit. Boobs, bum, and... Front bottom."

Rebecca Seehofer offered a rare smirk at Sybil's choice of stated nomenclature. Why was there no accepted everyday word for the female genital area?

Lighting her cigarette, Sybil stood in the doorway into the kitchen, allowing the smoke to be sucked away by the running extractor fan, which as Becca rightly pointed out, was leeching heat from the cottage.

"I thought such a genre of magazine was on the decline? I'm of the impression you dislike the idea of your cousin appearing in

Peanuts

," stated Becca without rancour.

"I don't care... It's up to her if she wants to play the tart and gets off on it."

"Maybe she needs the cash. It's tough for you students."

"She doesn't need the cash. She needs the buzz."

"There is an associated head rush with posing nude...," stated Becca absently.

"So you did photo sessions?"

"As part of my remit at the department, yes."

"How come?"

"Do you want to hear the story?"

"You know I do..." Sybil relented to offer a smile. To a stranger, it might appear odd in the extreme that Sybil enjoyed listening to her grandmother's stories. They'd possibly be more alarmed if they knew how she got off on them.

As a trainee journalist who had decided to abandon the precarious career in favour of security of tenure provided by teaching, Sybil remained in the process of writing up her grandmother's lurid memories that were often recited out of chronological order.

"Grab your tape recorder then, Sybs. Pour us both a whisky and pass me a cigarette. We may as well be comfortable."

Chapter 2 -- A warm Reception.

Thursday, 16

th

January 1969

.

Bartholomew Hotel, London, England.

The champagne reception at the plush London hotel was in full swing. The awkward early moments when the delegates sparred with each other in order to gain some indefinable advantage and assumed superiority over their rivals had petered out, to be replaced by a more convivial atmosphere of detente and social bonhomie.

The empty champagne bottles that rapidly accumulated in the kitchen bore testimony to this metamorphism. Away from the general melee, standing quietly by the kitchen door stood two elegantly dressed men, looking at ease in their formal dinner jackets whilst they sipped champagne and appraised their surroundings with apparent disregard.

"So who is the new German representative?" asked the senior civil servant, directing his question to his obsequious secretary hovering at his left shoulder.

"Strohhäusl... I believe that Denford has put his best man on the case, Sir James," responded the diminutive secretary.

"Ah...," answered Sir James knowingly. "Then I assume the foreign gentleman has already received an initial assessment?"

"Indeed he has, Sir James."

"Excellent... Ah-hum, here comes Denford now..."

Cornelius Denford, head of the department of Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies, ambled with practiced nonchalance into the reception escorted by his assumed secretary. She walked with her head bowed a respectful two paces to his rear. Denford strode into the centre of the gathering with lunging strides as benefited by his six foot two inch frame, whilst his secretary scurried behind him, her leg movement restricted by her tight black skirt that fell to just above her stocking-clad knees.

Denford halted and looked enquiringly around him and smoothed the prematurely greying side-parted hair as he exchanged nods with familiar faces.

His eyes narrowed and by courtesy of his praetorian nose assumed a hawk-like appearance the moment he spotted his prey. He resumed his journey across the luxurious blue carpet until he broached the German delegation. Here he stopped and raised himself to his full height, apparently waiting for his secretary to catch up with him.

To a casual observer, it might have appeared that the German party were deliberately ignoring Denford. However, the man seemed unfazed by their inattention and patiently waited for his secretary to join him. She appeared flustered when she finally met up with him and caught her heel in the deep pile of the carpet.

Flailing her arms in an effort to circumvent ending up sprawled upon the floor, she dropped her document folder from her left hand. The folder fell to the carpet, discharging its contents in an untidy arc around her.

Shouting in humiliated alarm, she muttered incoherent apology whilst dropping inelegantly upon her knees. Her frantic attempts to collate the untidy heap of papers succeeded only in further scattering the confusion of correspondence.

The German delegate's attention was drawn to the unfortunate secretary, who in a manner of incompetent panic was attempting to restore order about her. The tall blond German lowered himself to squat by her side, gathered up a few sheets of paper, and held them out before him for her attention. From the German's perspective, an inestimable age elapsed before she had picked up all the strewn debris and became aware of the proffered papers.

She slowly raised her face from its seemingly permanently downward attitude and adjusted her large-frame glasses to lie squarely on the bridge of her pert nose. She blushed when she caught the blond man's quizzical stare and stammered her response in perfect if somewhat hesitant German.

"Oh my, I'm so grateful to you, sir, I really am a most clumsy oaf at times! You must think I'm so stupid..."

The German did not think her stupid at all; he thought her charming and very pretty. In fact, looking beyond the daunting frames of her overly large spectacles, he could discern that she was a real beauty, in a stylishly demure fashion.

She caught his continued stare as he appraised her features. Her long honey-blonde hair was tied perfunctorily with a silk red ribbon into a practical ponytail. Her generous blue eyes betrayed an intelligence that her self-professed clumsiness belied. High cheekbones defined her round face and the pale shade of lipstick complimented her full, generous lips. The secretary's eyes blinked nervously whilst the German continued to stare.

"Hello down there," boomed Denford. "If you have quite finished, Miss Devereux, perhaps we could get on?"

Denford's enquiry startled the German. He sprang to his feet and then remembered to extend his chivalrous hand to the unlucky Rebecca Seehofer, the twenty-three-year-old pseudo-secretary with a double first from Cambridge University in modern languages. Becca gratefully accepted the assistance and smiled sheepishly at the handsome German.

After she had regained her feet, he was able to take in her figure in one sweeping glance. She stood about five feet five if one discounted the several inches afforded by her heels. Her black jacket was buttoned securely across her chest, professional modesty demanding that she obfuscated what lay below. The tailored jacket narrowed distinctively at her waist before burgeoning in accord with her feminine hips. Her narrow skirt emphasised her perceptibly firm thighs, which tapered down to her shapely calves.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Devereux," announced the man with old-fashioned Germanic civility.

Denford looked on with disguised amusement, half expecting the German to click his heels smartly together. The man named Strohhäusl extended his hand and Becca responded accordingly. He lightly grasped the tendered hand, which he tenderly anointed with a kiss as he bowed before her. Becca's neck and cheeks blushed again, this time a bright crimson.

"My name is Dieter Strohhäusl," he announced formally.

"You are a most chivalrous gentleman, Herr Strohhäusl. Unlike some men around her..." She flicked her eyes towards Denford in such a way that only Dieter could witness and he laughed warmly at the spontaneity of her gesture. Becca unleashed a devastating smile that melted the German's heart.

"You speak German well, Miss Devereux," commented Dieter.

"Thank you, Herr Strohhäusl. I do hope so. I perform a good deal of translation work for Mr Denford."

"Then maybe we will meet again?"

"I would like that..."

"Come, Miss Devereux. We haven't got all day!" chided Denford.

Rebecca smiled and shrugged at Dieter Strohhäusl before following her lord and master.

"Jolly well done, Rebecca. I think you hooked him. He has now to be landed."

Yes, Cornelius Denford was delighted by Becca's performance during first contact with the new German representative. As far as he was concerned, the evening's business had already been concluded. Now he too could relax like the other delegates around him.

"You must tell me sometime, Miss Seehofer. How did a sybaritic little minx like you learn to blush with such convincing ease...?"

Chapter 3 - Out of Hours.

Sunday, 19

th

January 1969.

The Department for Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies, Central London, England.

There were few people present to pay any attention to the young woman in the white Mary Quant padded cap who made her way that Sunday morning into the sombre Victorian building in the heart of the capital carrying a polystyrene cup of tea.

She halted at the security desk where a bored uniformed security officer seemingly awoke from his apathetic torpor when he noticed her approach. He visibly straightened in his chair and assumed an alert, smiling countenance.

"Morning, Becca!" he shouted effusively. "The old bastard hasn't dragged you out of bed again on Sunday, has he?"

Becca removed the large sunglasses from her eyes and revealed a face and a set of eyes that yearned for their bed. Even so, the security guard revelled in her presence.

"It's okay, Harry... Her Majesty's Government make their usual out-of-hours demands." She shared a conspiratorial laugh with the guard as she handed over her ID card.

"Himself arrived about an hour ago, so you can go right up," said Harry as he returned her card.

Becca glanced at the wall clock behind the security guard and noted the minute hand creeping up to the hour of eight o'clock. She presented Harry with a wry shrug before heading towards the three elevators.

Harry wistfully watched her progress. Abruptly, she swished aside her long fur-lined coat, so revealing her delectable backside, disreputably encased in tight fitting jeans. Glancing over her shoulder, she gave her arse cheek a firm slap for his benefit before disappearing inside the central elevator.

She was a little cock tease but he wouldn't have it any other way. If only he was forty years younger. His smile evaporated the instant the lift doors closed behind Becca Seehofer.

"You're late," declared Cornelius Denford, his eyes remaining glued to the papers before him on his opulent desk on the fifth floor of the building.

"It's bloody Sunday, Corny. Can't a girl have a lie in?" snapped Becca whilst stomping into the office and tossing her empty cup into Denford's waste bin.

"Not on my watch, no...," replied her boss dismissively, ignoring her use of his nickname, which few would have dared mutter in his presence. She slumped into the chair in front of his desk and stretched as she yawned.

Denford's acute peripheral vision caught the way her white blouse rode up beneath the kaftan to reveal her flat belly. Her exaggerated stretch likewise drew the fabric of her shirt across her breasts displaying the contours of her lacy bra like the details acquired from a brass rubbing.

"So, has he made contact?" asked Denford, finally offering her his full attention.

Becca gave the impression of disinterest, as if her mind was elsewhere. She was actually regretting the last few cocktails she and her girlfriends had consumed on their girls' night out. She had not made it to bed until four o'clock and her flaky brain now flitted butterfly-like to the vexing question of why Corny Denford should be wearing a three-piece worsted lounge suit on a Sunday morning.

"I'm sorry, sir... Could you repeat the question?" asked Becca mournfully.

"Has Strohhäusl made contact?"

"Yes, sir, he's obviously made enquiries and tracked me down to the translation bureau." She made the gesture of rabbit ears as she vocalised the fictional department. Denford smiled impulsively; even he sometimes fell for the estimable charms of Rebecca Seehofer. That was why Becca was his "Best man."

"I'm meeting him for dinner on Tuesday," added Becca.

"Excellent! He really is keen. Take it steady with him initially and we'll take it from there, depending upon how you two hit it off." Denford returned his attention to the papers on his desk.

"Is that it?" she asked peevishly.

"Is that what?" he challenged, well aware of the meaning of Becca's query.

"You dragged me out of bed for that! Why? Never heard of a bloody telephone?" fumed Becca.

"Because I can, Becky-wecky," purred Denford, making the point that he had noted her earlier use of his illicit nickname. "Tomorrow, I want you at Sunnyside Studios."

"Why?" she again demanded irritably.

"Because aside from Herr Strohhäusl, there is a Japanese diplomat we have our eye on grooming. He may well be posted here in a few months time. You will report at Sunnyside Studios at 09:30 tomorrow. We want you in the next copy of a certain publication he is known to favour."

"What sort of publication?"

"Pornographic, Miss Seehofer, pornographic. It will be like coals to Newcastle for someone of your talents. Enjoy the rest of your day..."

Becca shook her head in angry disbelief and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her. The inane smile remained fixed upon Denford's face for the next five minutes. Life was all about petty victories...

Chapter 4 - Sunnyside up.

Monday, 20

th

January 1969.

Sunnyside Studios, West London, England.

Becca Seehofer tugged the scarf higher, covering her neck in order to cheat the wind that gusted wispy snow about the side street. Her knee-length kaftan coat might have kept her body warm had it not been for the ingress of the icy blast that sought ingress beneath its hem. It was not the season to be wearing a miniskirt.

Fortunately, Sunnyside Studios was only a few minutes' walk from the bus stop. Nevertheless, Becca was shaking with cold by the time she bustled into the foyer of the innocuous looking establishment. The reception area epitomised swinging London with a genuine David Hockney painting mounted on the wall behind the receptionist.

"Rebecca Seehofer to see Fabien Lethbridge," announced Becca with her usual fearless élan.

She felt anything but. She hated not knowing what awaited her. She knew Fabien was a famous portrait photographer and theatre director. That he was successful in both disciplines implied a rare talent. Fabien worked with the country's leading theatrical thespians and snapped the images of the great and the good. He was a frequent face on TV, a regular on some word game quiz on BBC2, which she avoided watching if at all possible. He was known for his camp wit and cutting intelligence.

She had no sooner taken a seat and picked up a copy of a Sunday supplement when she heard her hailed name.

"Miss Seehofer...?"

Becca looked instantly in the direction of the speaker, a young girl leaning against a gaping internal door. The girl looked short and neat, dressed in a denim jacket and jeans, sporting a tight blonde bob hairstyle as made popular by Twiggy.

"If you'd like to come this way please," announced the girl in response to Becca's enquiring stare.

Becca followed the denim-clad figure down a corridor before being ushered into what Becca took to be a dressing room, based solely on the worktop running the length of one wall and the long wall-mounted mirror that reposed behind it. Becca was invited to sit on one of the three swivel chairs and spun to face her hostess.