Deep Waters

Note: all characters are over 18, as specified in the chapter.

Deep Waters - Chapter 1

For someone who makes - or rather used to make - their living as a freelance reporter, writing up stories in the hope of hawking them to news outlets, it is strange that the most extraordinary tale I have ever come across is one I would never sell. But then it's my own and there are all sorts of reasons why I wouldn't wish to share it with the world and, besides, I don't need the money any longer. Despite that, I still feel the need to write it. It is a strange saga, and I struggle to believe it myself, so perhaps setting it down just as it happened will help me process the reality.

It began through my work, although even that was a surprise. At 26 I had yet to make any reputation in journalism and was barely scratching a living selling a mix of local news from my home town and pieces I had researched off the internet to any outlet that was desperate enough to fill up their pages or their website that they would buy them. It was a precarious business, and made more so in that I was a newly married man and felt an obligation to try to be a responsible husband and bring in a decent wage.

Izzy (my wife's name is Isabella, but she hates being called that so to everyone except her mother she is Izzy) would have laughed at my paternalistic concerns had I dared explain them to her. 24 years old, she was making a career of her own, training in a local law firm as a legal executive, and her job and salary prospects were likely much better than mine.

Izzy is nothing if not a self-confident young woman and would have seen nothing wrong in being the main bread winner in our marriage and, anyway, she thought my job was exciting - far more so than it really was. But, what with housing costs and rising bills of every sort, the reality was we needed both of us earning and I felt pressure to succeed.

I said earlier this was my story, but in truth it is as much Izzy's as mine and she was in it from the very start. The beginning was ordinary enough - a message to the email address I used for my work. The surprise was who it was from and what he wanted.

The sender was George Webster. I had no idea who he was at first, but a quick search of the web revealed him as one of the UK's richest men, but one with the lowest of public profiles. He was notoriously averse to publicity and rarely went anywhere, remained cloistered in his home, Deepwell Hall, a beautiful 18

th

century mansion (although parts were said to be even older), located in a remote part of the Wiltshire countryside.

Despite this, his investments were managed astutely and he was wealthy enough to be well up the Times rich list each year. Apart from that little seemed to be known - no major interests, no wife or children, no known romantic attachments, not even any wider family; in short, all rather mysterious.

What Mr Webster said he wanted - if the message really was from him - was my professional services. Specifically, he wanted me to write his biography (or rather ghost write an autobiography), and the sum of money he was offering was beyond my wildest dreams. It was enough to settle my money worries for several years. Better yet, writing the story of the reclusive multi-millionaire could be the making of me professionally; a way to get my name known.

Webster was proposing that I came to stay for a week at his fabulous home to see if we could work together. He also insisted that I bring my wife and be his guest for the week. Aside from the free board and lodging, he would pay me £5,000 just for doing that. It would be like a well-paid holiday, even if nothing further came of it.

I'm not stupid. Everything about this was too good to be true. It was either a hoax or there was some hidden agenda at work. However, Izzy pointed out that we didn't seem to have much to lose and potentially a lot to gain. Concluding that she was right and it was worth a try to see what happened, I replied, accepting Webster's offer. Izzy arranged for time off work, we packed our bags and a fortnight later we were on our way to Wiltshire and Deepwell Hall.

*****

The estate turned out to be ringed by a high stone wall, with, so far as I could tell, just a single entrance, barred by two huge metal gates. It was there that we were finally certain the invitation was genuine. The gates were unmanned, but there were CCTV cameras mounted on the gate pillars and as I drew up our car they opened inward with a hum of electric mechanism and I was able to drive through. I had earlier supplied my car registration as requested and we had obviously been recognised and expected.

The drive from the gates wound through parkland and trees and it was only as we finally approached the house that we got a clear view of it. Deepwell Hall was enormous, comprising of a central section with a colonnaded main entrance and two huge wings to east and west, each with many windows on two floors. There was plenty of space to park on the gravel driveway in front of this impressive pile, so I stopped the car and - feeling a little plebeian amidst all this splendour - Izzy and I got out, collected our luggage from the boot and made our way to the grand entrance doors.

There was a bell push, so I pressed it. After a short delay, the first real surprise of many that day came when one of the doors opened. We were greeted by a young woman, in her early twenties I guessed, very attractive in a slim, willowy, long-legged kind of way, and dressed as a perfect French maid, from the little white cap perched in her long brunette hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, down to some rather impractical high-heeled court shoes. It was not that the outfit was improper - it covered everything that needed covering - but it was unexpected and undeniably sexy.

"Ah, bonjour. You are Monsieur et Madame Kemble? We were told to expect you."

It turned out that the wearer of the outfit was also French and her richly accented voice was a sexy as her clothing.

"Yes, that's us!" Izzy said brightly, while I was still taking in the vision before me, "Hi, I'm Izzy. What's your name?" My wife was ignoring the indications that this maid was some kind of servant and treating her as if she owned the place.

The French girl smiled in response, "You can call me Madelaine. Please come in."

Madelaine stepped aside and we entered into a cool of the entrance hall. It was majestic. Directly in front of us was a wide wooden staircase that led up to a small mezzanine landing with the stairs continuing up to left and right to a balcony landing that circled the hall, with the roof high above us on the second floor. At ground level there were corridors leading off to the left and right giving entry to the two wings of the house, while either side of the stairs other passages allowed access to what seemed to be the oldest part of the house. Everything was wood panelled, and I half expected suits of armour, old weapons or mounted stags heads, but actually there were just a few items of what looked like antique furniture against the walls and a number of landscape paintings on the walls as decoration.

As we admired the surroundings, a young man of about 20 entered, wearing the sort of uniform that you might see the porters in an upmarket hotel have. He was tall, blond, muscular and his handsome face sported a friendly grin. I felt an instant twang of jealousy, which I then dismissed. Yes, my wife was going to fancy him - as indeed she would Madelaine - but I trusted her to do nothing behind my back.

"Andrew will take your bags to the room we have prepared for you," Madelaine said, indicated the blond giant. "I have instructions to take you directly to see Mr Webster - unless you need to freshen up first?"

This time I forestalled Izzy taking charge of the conversation by indicating we were fine and would indeed like to meet Mr Webster as soon as possible. That Andrew headed up the stairs was not a surprise - I was impressed by the way he carried Izzy and my bags, one in each hand as if they weighed nothing - but I expected we would be shown to somewhere on the ground floor. However, once the young man was safely on his way, Madelaine turned and followed him, leading us up to the second floor. However when we reached the little mini-landing at the top of the first flight, she turned right, whereas Andrew headed left.

I had got distracted again. Following Madelaine up the stairs I couldn't help noticing the flash of stocking top and glimpse of suspender that was holding them up which was visible as she took each step. Tights would have been the practical choice, but the knowledge she had gone old school with suspender belt and stockings did fit with the rest of her maid outfit. And was it my imagination or was the feminine sway of her hips with each step just a little exaggerated? All I knew was it was fascinating me.

We reached the second floor landing, with its view down onto the entrance hall below, and Madelaine led us a short distance round to the right, then left down a long corridor with many doors off it, this being the access to the whole east wing second story. However we only made it as far as the first door on our left. Madelaine stopped, knocked politely, but then entered without waiting for a response.

She said "Monsieur et Madame Kemble are here, Mademoiselle Lim."

This was addressed to a young woman, smartly dressed in a business jacket, crisp white blouse and blue skirt, who at first glance I thought might be Chinese, although when I got to know her better I discovered had a Singaporean father and an Australian mother. What I saw at once was that she was unusually good looking. Rather short perhaps, maybe 5 foot 2 inches, but perfectly proportioned, aged about 25 at a guess, with long, silky black hair worn loose.

It struck me that something of a theme was emerging here. We had met three of George Webster's staff and all of whom qualified as 'hot', assuming you were attracted to their sex.

Miss Lim was sat behind a desk, from which she now rose and made her way toward us. Aside from the desk, there was a window opposite where we had come in, which showed a fine view of the gardens behind the house, a second door in the wall to our right, a long couch, a couple of office type plants in pots, a laptop on the desk, a wall painting of a tropical beach to break the monotony of the white painted walls and that was about it for furnishings. I found it a little disappointing to find such tepid modernism in this beautiful old house.

"Thank you Madelaine, you may go," Miss Lim said, then holding out her hand to me she added: "I'm Sarah Lim, Mr Webster's personal assistant. I'm pleased you and Mrs Kemble could come. Mr Webster has been looking forward to meeting you." Her English was perfect, better than mine, although I subsequently discovered it was not her first language and she in fact spoke seven. Anyway, I shook her hand and then Izzy did the same and Sarah flashed both of us a welcoming smile. Yet another common factor - everyone seem very happy and exceptionally pleased to see us.

"If you'll take a seat," Sarah said gesturing to the couch, "I'll just check that Mr Webster is ready to see you. Izzy and I duly sat, while the efficient Miss Lim disappeared through the other door.

"I can't blame you for looking at the maid's stocking tops when we were on the stairs," my wife suddenly said, "I must admit it was hard not to notice. But did you have to ogle that secretary as well?"

I didn't deny it, but just said, "Be honest, you fancy her too."

Here you must forgive a digression from my story, to give a little background to mine and Izzy's relationship, given it is relevant to what happens later. Before I met her I had two 'proper', that is to say sexual, relationships with women. The first was not long after I had turned 18, with a girl the same age called Helen who I met at a party. I can see now that she and I were both desperate to get laid and lose our virginities and it really didn't amount to much more than that. Out of guilt or a sense of obligation or something, we both attempted to make a go of it afterward, but we had nothing in common and inside three months we'd split up.

The second lasted well over two years, and looking back on it now it seems such a waste. Tricia liked things to suit her. I was held up to some unexplained standard she set and generally found wanting. In contrast she never felt much need to do anything for me. The worst aspect was our sex life, which was infrequent and unadventurous and took place entirely on her terms. I stuck with it more because of all the time and effort I had put into the relationship than because I was actually fulfilled by any aspect of it. Ironically the nicest thing Tricia ever did for me was to break up.

After those experiences, Izzy was a revelation. For one thing she seemed to love me with a passion almost from the beginning. Don't ask me to explain why - I find it as surprising as anyone; I'm just eternally grateful she feels that way about me. As for me, I soon came to nearly worship her. I knew from the first time I saw her that here was a drop-dead gorgeous girl, sweet looking and with a figure to die for, but what I soon discovered was that she was just as nice as she looked, kind, thoughtful and loving.

And then there was the sex. If I had been frustrated by my previous relationships, now I was struggling to keep up. Izzy adores sex in all its form and was essentially willing to try anything at least once and most things lots of times. Curiously, this was the only point of slight tension in our relationship. Izzy told me early on that she was bisexual and had had both boyfriends and girlfriends in the past, and that she had enjoyed threesomes and more, right up to full blown orgies with like-minded friends. I don't want to give the impression that she had been some sort of slut who would sleep with anyone; she wanted to get to know people first and judge a person's character, but once she liked you then Izzy saw nothing wrong in friends giving each other pleasure.

She tried to get me interested in such ideas, but this was a bit too much for me with my lack of experience, and besides I was so besotted with her that I didn't want to share - not even with another woman. And it is a remarkable testament to her love for me that she gave all that up. Izzy hadn't slept with another person of either sex since we got together. That simultaneously pleased me and made me sad, since I knew she missed it and she was someone who really could have sex with someone else without it lessening her love for me.

We had met when she was 22, two years my junior, and we dated for about a year before I asked her to marry me. I'm not sure now why it took me so long. And at the time we went to Deepwell, we'd been blissfully married for just over six months - and yet my foolish jealousy was still there. Izzy is a very attractive girl and I had to watch and worry about not just the men in her life trying to seduce her, but potentially the women too. It was stupid, since Izzy was clearly able to control her desires, but I couldn't help it.

Izzy had tried to reassure me. She noted that it was ironic that the two people she loved most in the world - me and her best friend Olivia who had been chief bridesmaid at her wedding - were the two that she couldn't share her natural sexuality with. Me because of my prudish jealousy and Olivia because, despite a number of attempts at seduction on Izzy's part, she had always resisted her friend's advances, saying she wasn't like that and she didn't want to do anything that would spoil their friendship.

All that history was what lay behind my remark about Izzy finding Sarah Lim attractive. We had been at Webster's mansion and already met Madelaine, Andrew and Sarah, any of whom were good looking enough to get Izzy's attention. However, my wife was used to my stupidity and just grinned at me, before adding, "We're supposed to stay a week, remember. If you want me on my best behaviour you'd better make sure to keep me happy at night, and that'll help stop your eyes wandering as well."

I was not at all averse to the idea of plenty of intimate time with my wife - we were away from all the pressures of home and work after all, almost like a holiday - but any further thoughts on these lines were interrupted by the return of Sarah.

"Hi again," she said. "Mr Webster is ready to see you now. I'll sit in as well so I can take notes in case he needs anything done."

We filed into the room next door, one clearly used by George Webster as an office. It was far grander than the one we had just left, oak panelled, with a library of old books covering one wall and two large windows to our left showing a fine view of the formal gardens at the rear of the house. There was a small conference table with chairs in one corner, another couch and a positively enormous oak desk that indicated 'very important person sits here' as plainly as if it had a notice on it to that effect.

Webster had done us the honour of emerging from behind his desk to greet us in person and was standing in the middle of the room waiting. He was smartly dressed in what was doubtless an extravagantly expensive tailored suit, and with his strong handsome face and grizzled greying hair, he was the very model of the wealthy businessmen, perhaps in his late 50s. He was of medium height, and looked fit for his age.

Webster thrust out a hand and I duly shook it. He had a firm grip. "Ah, Mr Kemble, do you mind if I call you Edward?" he said. "Please call me George. We are going to be working together for some time, I hope, and there is no need for formalities."

"Thanks, and in that case it's Ed," I replied. That was the name most people used. Never Ted, I hated that, and only my wife ever called me Eddie and that was private.

Webster gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement to my comment and turned to Izzy and shook her hand as well.

"And Mrs Kemble - Isabella isn't it?"

"I prefer to be called Izzy, George," my wife replied not standing on ceremony.

"Of course Izzy," our host replied. "It's delightful to have you both here and I hope you enjoy your stay. I think you will; everyone does."

I didn't entirely like the look Webster was giving Izzy, not that she seemed to mind. I guess attractive young women are obliged to suffer the attention of lecherous older men, and I had my suspicions of my new 'friend' George in that respect given the nature of his household staff.

Despite this, I soon found myself feeling at ease. George Webster had an undeniable charm. Instead of sitting at his grand desk, he showed us to the couch and pulled up a chair for himself. On his orders Sarah left and returned with drinks - nothing more exotic than tea - and then we sat and chatted. Not yet about the reason I was here, but mostly about this beautiful old house. Slightly unwillingly, I found myself liking George and it seemed Izzy did too. His company was charming and somehow relaxing. I stopped worrying.

After about half an hour our host said, "Well I think it is time we got down to business Ed. I don't suppose Izzy wants to be bored by that, so let me borrow your wife for a moment and I'll find someone to show her round. Wait here and I'll only be ten minutes at most."

Earlier I might have wondered why George didn't just call someone into his office, but by now I was sure he was trustworthy. Nor did Izzy appear to have any concerns. Besides nothing much could happen in ten minutes, so I made no objection. He and Izzy left by a door in the south wall, which by the geography of the place obviously led onto the long corridor we had seen earlier. I waited passively and contentedly for George to return and indeed it didn't take long; less than the time he had suggested in fact.