The Poisonous Cuckoo Compromise

The Poisonous Cuckoo

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Chapter One - Party Favour

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The rain lashed down heavily against the windscreen as I peer over my drivers shoulder into the darkness.

"What time would you like to be picked up Sir?"

My eyes still cast over the aesthetically pleasing looking venue that we have duly pulled up outside of, in the main doorway come reception a cluster of suited males and cocktail dress clad females huddle, braving the elements for the desperate need of nicotine inhalation. The large plume of an electronic cigarette drifts away from the congregated addicts.

"George," I offer back to my driver almost immediately "I think you'll be safe waiting for me here... it's a little more than a PR exercise this for me."

"Right you are Sir,"

George's formality grated with me, it always had done. I had used the firm he had previously worked for initially for private hire chauffeur services to avoid the crass and common nature of taxi cabs. Having soon discovered how little George was making an hour and how good he was at his job I'd very soon offered him full time employment and provided him with the Rolls Royce Phantom in which I now sat.

There was absolutely no need for the use of the term Sir, of which I had reminded him of on countless occasions to date. I was of wealth, as my Father used to surmise, but I chose not to let my wealth overtly show. I would have much rather George refer to me as Mister Halliday had he the need for such formality. Markus would be sufficient so far as I was concerned

With all that said I'd long given up on my attempts to coerce George's behaviour and now politely if somewhat begrudgingly accepted his over politeness.

"I've a feeling this isn't going to be a fun evening." It was a statement to myself rather than to George as I watched him turn the key in the ignition and felt the very feint rumble of the vehicle's engine subside.

Clutching hold of and opening the rear passenger door handle I clamber from the rain soaked, perfectly polished vehicle. Heavy pools of residual rain hung on the well waxed and polished roof of the Rolls Royce as it reflected back the orange glow of the lights that lit the vast car park to the front of the Stirchley Court Hotel.

The venue itself looked sophisticated enough from the outside and from what I recall the original building apparently dated to the late 18th Century. Crossing the gravel drive way I step up a flight on concrete steps that rise to meet the main entrance amongst which the crowd of half a dozen or so cigarette smokers huddle together against the persistent cold wind and accompanying light drizzle that's whipped around the side of the building to punish those who dare to face the elements for the sake of their habitual smoking tendencies.

I catch their glances as I pass, eye contact fleetingly made as I pass them without offering any recognition of my own.

Stepping up to and through a revolving door I enter the main foyer of the hotel. The expanse of well polished marble in keeping with the external appearance of the building. Inside the foyer individuals in formal attire mingle. Appreciating my lack of anonymity as I pass them and the impressive natural Christmas Tree that stands at least fourteen feet in height and is decorated classically in gold and silver ornaments.

I follow both my instinct and the distant sound of slightly muffled music that rumbles through the foyer. Unbuttoning my tuxedo jacket, I stride with a purpose across the reception area towards what I assume to be the main function room or at the very least the core room hosting this evening's function, the annual Clarkson Cooper Dinner Dance.

Clarkson Cooper being just one of a portfolio of companies I have invested in over recent years. Their speciality lay with Managed Warehouse space, and their property portfolio alone, or the commercial value of that portfolio had more than warranted my considerable down payment to become a silent partner over four years ago when the company had been facing financial oblivion off the back of a significant loss of a number of key contracts.

Pulling open one of two double doors, I step aside and hold the door open for an attractive looking tall blonde in a deep purple ankle length ball gown who offers me a smile of acknowledgement from striking red lips and makes eye contact with steel blue eyes framed by dusky grey blue make up.

As she steps through the door I can't help but cast my eye along the backs of a slender calf exposed by a slit to her thigh along the left hand side of the exquisite dress. A slender leg clad in opaque hosiery and accentuated by a seam that runs up her leg from the ankle strap of the black stiletto heels that she wears.

Focusing my attention back on why I'm here I step purposefully in to the main function room to find a hive of excited activity. Hotel staff hurriedly strip down and move tables to repurpose the room. While in the far corner a mobile DJ booth, already set up, accounts for the caustic cacophony of modern dance music that bursts from stack speakers as I step forth a brief ear piercing squeal of protested feedback, presumably from the microphone clutched in the hands of a heavyset male stood behind the DJ Booth, causes everyone to flinch.

Guests and Staff of Clarkson Cooper line the walls of the room, not surprisingly in the main they congregate towards the left hand wall where a bar stretches across the majority of the length of the wall. My timing had been impeccable, having successfully avoided the three courses of stereotypical Christmas fair that had likely been served at the start of the evening. The meal had been hugely unappealing despite the pang of hunger I felt in my stomach, having not eaten since lunch time around nine hours earlier.

A pretty, but far too young, brunette in a tight white blouse and black short skirt approaches me cradling awkwardly a tray of flute glasses filled with Champagne. Meeting her pretty hazel green eyes, I smile softly as I take a glass from the tray. Shyly she returns my smile before stepping away only to be immediately accosted by two middle aged women I don't recognise. As I step away I can't help but let my eyes fall over the toned yet slender black nylon clad legs of the waitress a brief vision passing through my mind which I move on from as I take a swig of the slightly chilled but hideously acidic tasting Champagne.

I've no idea how much of the companies pitiful profits have been wasted on hosting tonight for the assembled staff of Clarkson Cooper, but I can tell immediately that cost savings may at least have been achieved with the supply of a drink that despite being offered as Champagne is to all intents and purposes little better than a cheap sparkling wine.

Spotting him again through the crowd as I progress toward the mass, I had noticed him the moment I stepped into the function room, the lights of which now begin to dim to be replaced by the flashing strobing multitude of colours from the mobile disco. Right on cue a fake American accent erroneously welcomes everyone from 'Cooperson Clarkstons' to their Christmas Party. And as a turgid pop song begins to blare from the speakers the DJ continues his diatribe and makes a brave proclamation that, "The evening starts here."

Momentarily distracted by the cheap farce that constitutes entertainment but somehow still starts to fill a dance floor in the middle of the room I stride purposefully towards the Managing Director of Clarkson Cooper, Simon Anderson.

Simon offers me a broad and sincere smile as he spots me approaching.

"Markus..." he proclaims as he shakes me firmly by the hand, "...so glad you could make it."

Immediately I can tell that he is inebriated, possibly not entirely by the consumption of crass complimentary alcoholic beverages but also by the position of grandeur and subsequent posturing that he always creates. A truly false impression given my knowledge of how genuinely weak and infective he can be, especially in the face of the merest hint of any kind of pressure.

Simon Anderson is a nice enough man, but from experience a wholly ineffectual leader and businessman, the empire he runs today should be far stronger for my investment. That it isn't is only a reflection of his lack of capability and his failure to consider, let alone adopt, necessary changes to forward his own potential and subsequently the potential and reputation of his business he heads up. Closing down the business to release the collateral his operating premises represent grows closer with every passing month of significant failure.

"How are you Simon?" I offer in response to his exuberant greeting.

"Having a great night... a great night, " he states a little too energetically in response, "...it's feels good to reward everyone for their hard work across the year."

"You're just like Santa Clause," I dourly reply choosing deliberately not to acknowledge the benign function he seemingly revels in holding court over as he purposefully casts his hand around the room.

Simon grins inanely at my comment seemingly taking it as a compliment when it was not meant as such. Passing comment on the waste of company profits passes my mind but I decide to bite my tongue. Simon's denial of the increasing financial plight Clarkson Cooper faces as a going concern is dangerous not just to him but to every member of staff enjoying the pomp and circumstance of the event. The very real threat of every employee being made redundant within the next twelve months goes blissfully unacknowledged by all but a small handful of very concerned senior employees, it's perhaps no coincidence that those employees are conspicuous by their absence this evening.

"Have you met my kids..." Simon continued to enthuse as he sweeps his right hand now towards a teenage boy and a slightly older attractive looking girl who both sit looking bored to tears and glum faced at the far side of vast round table covered in a white table cloth. "Paul's doing his A levels next summer and hoping to go to Oxford... Sara's twenty and just finished her first term at Cardiff University after her gap year."

I acknowledge them both with a nod and receive little more than a grunt and a nod from Paul while Sara offers a polite smile with little other than a, "Pleased to meet you," before she's looking back to the phone her thumb rapidly scrolls across.

Roundly ignoring there ignorance Simon offers a raise of his eyebrows without apology before hastily adding, "Jana's here somewhere... My Wife."

He has no need to offer explanation of who Jana is. While I had not met the wider family I had met Jana on a number of occasions prior to this evening.

From the corner of my eye I can't fail to spot the attractive brunette, dressed tonight in a striking bright red dress, as she approaches through the function room, I notice her not least by the short cut of the long sleeve dress that sits just above mid thigh over toned legs that are clad in dark sheer nylon. The neckline of her dress dips teasingly towards the middle of her chest to offer a tantalising glimpse of what I had always suspected to be cosmetically enhanced firm round breasts.

"Markus how are you?" she enthuses, with far more sincerity than her husband, as she picks her way through ambling bodies and heads towards us.

"I'm very well thank you Jana... you look... well that's a statement not a dress," I offer with a greeting far warmer than I had made to her husband moments earlier. I deliberately look back to him as I compliment his wife, if only to draw my eyes away from her ample cleavage.

"This little number?" She enquires feigning indifference but at the same time she beams from my compliment. I watch amused as Simon's arm slips almost immediately around his wife's waists as she steps alongside of him. Noticing the apparently uncomfortable look that crosses her face at the simple enough act of his physical touch. "Thank you Markus... at least someone's appreciates the effort I've made."

A wounded look crosses Simon Anderson's face at the unsubtle dig his wife openly makes as she reaches for a glass of the cheap champagne sat within reach on the large round table to her right. I barely contain my smirk at the acerbic interaction. The need to make comment would be both sarcastic and possibly inappropriate. On first impressions alone the two of them do not appear to portray an image of an overly happy couple.

Jana and Simon Anderson have though been married for many years as I understand. Truth be told I know little about either of them outside of the working relationship I held with Simon. Jana without any doubt is a stunning looking woman, who clearly takes pride in her appearance. Her hair, cut to shoulder length, sits upon shoulders exposed by the exquisite cut and fit of the bright red dress. The garment accentuates her toned yet shapely body. Jana is not tall, but her heels hold her at the same height as her husband as I note her cast her eyes back towards mine as she takes a further sip of the champagne. I offer her a smile in exchange.

"How are the renovations coming along?" I offer to make small talk, "Weren't you having a new kitchen installed to that place you bought?"

"Oh, don't ask," Jana states with a sneer of obvious discontent as her eyes theatrically roll to punctuate the statement.

"Yeah bit of a sore point," Simon offers with further ambiguity that makes me immediately regret my attempt at idle conversation almost as much as my decision to even attend the event.

Somehow though I'm intrigued by the mundanity of the situation or the drama seemingly contained within the situation.

"We were promised everything would be finished by Christmas... it won't be." Jana states bluntly, obviously unable to hold back on further comment on the matter., As she finishes the champagne on one vicious swig she continues, "My husband's preference for the cheapest quote bites us on our asses ...yet again."

I can't help but note her second swipe at her husband in quick succession. Her forthright opinion in comparison to her husband's is endearing, attractive even. I admire such honesty, and underlying passion. So much so I tolerate the tirade that Jana launches into in respect to delays, substandard workmanship and poor inferior quality materials. I pay little attention to her but I nod and agree with her, demonstrating sympathy that appears heartfelt if only as it also affords me the opportunity to cast my eyes back over her physical form.

"I'm sure they'll be finished by the end of the week," Simon feebly offers an interjection that lacks conviction and struggles to be heard over his wife's continued opinions on the matter.

"If something's worth doing it's worth doing right," I finally offer fixing my gaze on Jana's dark brown eyes.

"And paying a little extra for," Jana interjects once more, underling her earlier point.

"You do get what you pay for," I offer, considering even in this briefest of exchanges if Clarkson Cooper would not be under better stewardship if she were employed over the soft natured and limp-wristed management style of her husband.

"Anyway..." Jana declares snatching a further glass of champagne from a waiter who passes casually by with a tray of drinks. "...I'm sure you didn't come here tonight to hear about our domestic troubles."

I hold my tongue on the comment that I had expected very much little other than the delirium of such mundanity from the unappealing prospect of the social gathering, instead I simply smile politely.

"What are your plans for Christmas Markus?" Jana enquires on a change of subject with a far softer, and genuinely sincere tone.

"I've not really made any yet..." I answer honestly, "...probably just a quiet one spent with Sophie."

"Markus you never tell me anything." Jana immediately scorns her husband once more, this time drawing a befuddled look to her husband's features. "I'm sorry Markus... I didn't know you were in a relationship... where is she tonight?"

"Curled up in bed waiting for me to come back home to her," I state on a sip of the now warm and even more acidic tasting champagne.

A look of confusion comes to Jana's attractive features at my response. I note how she looks to her husband as if to clarify she's heard me correctly before she looks back to myself. I amuse myself in the ambiguity of the moment.

"Like a good girl should do," I offer further, barely keeping the chuckle from my tone.

"Am I missing something?" Jana eventually enquires.

"I... uh..." Simon flounders.

"She's my dog... a Labrador" I smirk as I finally provide clarity,

The blush that breaks across Jana's cheeks before a broad smile breaks across her slender lips makes her attractive appearance even more endearing. Her confusion and the subsequent embarrassment bring a grin to my own features as she reaches out and places her right hand on my left forearm and let's go of a chuckle of her own.

I look from her to her husband. Simon Anderson smiles benignly himself at the confusion of the situation. It's obvious he knows as little about me as I do about him it would appear. Briefly I glance to his wife's hand on my forearm before I turn my attention back to her brown eyes.

"She's the only female company I need," I state.

"Oh..." Jana offers as her eyes narrow a little while she holds my gaze, "...I'm sure that's not true."

For the briefest of moments I hold her gaze, forgetting momentarily the circumstances and everyone around us. Concentrating only on her as her fingers gently slip from my forearm.

Something not so much in what she said as in the way she had said it.

Behind me the raucous cheer of laughter breaks out and everyone's attention is snapped towards some buffoon dancing erratically around the dance floor with a neck tie wrapped around his forehead.

Amongst the distraction I look back to Jana and find that narrowed gaze still upon me.

I smile and the smile she returns me sets my mind racing.

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Crossing the entrance foyer of the hotel an hour later I leave the employees of Clarkson Cooper to their revelry.

Somehow the buffoon had encouraged even more of the masses to the dance floor and I had spent the last hour locked in mundane conversations with various senior employees and their partners whilst refusing the persistent encouragement to join Simon Anderson and his employees on the dance floor. Even having made the wise switch from the cheap champagne to bourbon diluted with diet cola I knew there was no amount of alcohol consumption that would encourage me to make a fool of myself in such a manner.

The evening had been everything I'd expected it to be, it actually may have surpassed expectation in terms of its teeth grinding tediousness. I had chosen to slip away without any great fanfare, only requesting via Paul, Simon's son, that he pass on my regards to his Father. And that only as I had passed the young man while exiting the double doors to the function room that now stood closed behind me, mercifully muffling the sound of the music that would no doubt continue until late into the night.

Towards the main entrance I pass two males locked into hushed conversation with obvious undertones as they laugh at a seemingly crude yet private joke whilst looking back towards the revolving door they had just spilled through from the exterior of the building.

Shaking my head as the taller of the two stumbles into and brushes past me without apology as I make to press through the revolving door in the opposite direction.

The damp chill of the night air is somewhat of a welcome relief following the stuffy warmth that had built in the function room. My eyes automatically scan the rows of parked cars as I search for George or more specially the Rolls Royce. Despite being quietly confident he will have already diligently spotted me as I exit the building.