I been really excited to get the summer job -- a prestigious literary agency -- a bit fuddy duddy, perhaps, but with some really famous old-school writers on their books, and a few big prizewinners and best-sellers, too.
Mr Nathan had interviewed me -- the youngest of three partners -- handsome, virile, in his early 40s, tweed jacket, smoked a pipe, just as if he was from central casting. The interview had gone very well -- he'd been interested in my own writing to just the right degree, talked about my college, where his cousin had studied -- all just as I'd hoped it would be; taken seriously, and selected for a serious job.
The pay was terrible, of course -- but at least it wasn't an unpaid internship like so many of my fellow students were taking. I'd just be able to afford a tiny flat if I didn't mind an hour commute -- it just had to be put up with -- I needed somewhere alone, couldn't bear sharing.
The work was actually quite demanding, and the partners weren't as easy-going as they seemed -- very exacting, in fact -- but this was good -- I felt I might actually learn something, and once I'd got used to the demands, I found I could just about keep on top of what they wanted.
Mostly I worked for Mr Nathan, but in a small office, even with a few assistants, I ended up doing jobs for all three of them at various times.
There was Ms Frankl, a handsome German lady, in her late 40s -- a strange mixture of friendly and interested, with a strong overtone of command about her, and a mind like a steel trap. She was officially my mentor.
And the there was Sir James -- knighted two years ago for 'services to literature' -- a very fit and sprightly man in his late 50's, tall, big boned but rangy, with huge hands, a jutting jaw, wide but gaunt shoulders, he reminded me somehow of the comic book character Skeletor. For no real reason, I was terrified of him. He didn't smile much, was careful, measured and serious, with an intimidating vocabulary and precision in his language. You never missed any deadline he set you -- not that there was any threat -- you just wouldn't dare.
His hands -- I was fascinated and appalled by his hands -- so large, the fingers long and bony -- but in proportion, so rather large, the knuckles like walnuts. In his hands even a large hardback looked like a paperback.
And then, just as I had begun to feel I was settling in, it started; out of nowhere, a perfectly typical exchange with Mr Nathan about the next batch of manuscripts to be sent back to their hapless authors with rejection letters, he said it;
"If you were to come over here and use your pretty mouth on my cock, we could discuss some quite attractive side benefits."
I just stared at him -- too surprised to think of anything snappy to say (actually, I have never been any good at quick come-backs, but this was, well, dumbfounding is the word).
Into the silence -- he was looking totally relaxed, just grinning faintly at me, leaning back in his chair, pipe in hand he said -- just as casually as if he were adding a wax polish to his instructions at the car wash;
"I'd want to see your tits, too -- I've been wondering if they can really be as good as they promise to be."
More silence, near panic now, on my part. He raised his eyebrows a little, his smile grew, a question in his eyes. He didn't even seem to care what the outcome was! I was breathing at random, my heart fluttering, strange sensations between my legs, in my belly, at my nipples and in my throat.
Of course, I had a crush on him, but this .. this!
It became unbearable, the silence, my inability to speak, his calmness, Almost incoherent, I gabbled something, something no more meaningful than;
"No .. no I .. I .. I don't, I I .. I can't ..",
.. and scampered from the room, holding the manuscripts tightly to my bosom, flushing wildly, whimpering under my breath.
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before -- never. Of course, I've had come-ons, wolf whistles in the street, too, but this -- this blatant, casual and cool offer of -- of money, for sex, from someone with power over me.
Didn't he realise I could go to the police, make trouble?
As soon as I had the thought I realised he was perfectly safe. There was no way I would do anything of the sort. I .. I just couldn't.
I dropped the papers on my desk and almost ran for the loos, and hid there until I could decently leave for lunch. Usually I ate at my desk, but in theory an hour was allowed, and today I would take it. I didn't eat -- no appetite -- but I walked to Regents Park and round the lake at a furious pace.
Despite a racing mind this whole time, I had no idea of anything to do, and so for want of anything else, I ended up back at my desk, staring at the wall, jumpy as hell. In the end, I forced myself to do some work, and within a couple of hours I was at least looking as if things were normal. No-one seemed to have guessed that anything was off, at least, and I was terribly grateful -- I couldn't have borne any questions.
Mr Nathan came and went, just as normal, looked at me, just as normal, smiled and nodded -- while I gaped like an idiot. How? How could he act so .. so casually -- after that?
And then it was time to go home -- I often worked late, but today I was out of the door on the minute, scurrying home, mind still racing, but still with no meaning coming from it. I drank three stiff vodkas as soon as I got back to the flat, then two more over the course of an evening spent curled up in pjs, watching whatever the telly showed me, without noticing.
Then, as if from nowhere, I knew what I would do -- I'd go to Ms F in the morning. I'd tell her. See what she said. She was my mentor, after all; perhaps .. perhaps they knew Mr Nathan was like this.
Somehow this made everything different. Ms F was no nonsense -- and she was senior to Mr Nathan, too. It was like handing the problem over to a higher power. Suddenly, I felt how drunk I was, how exhausted from a day's going round and round in my head, and within minutes I was asleep -- to wake when I slipped off the sofa in the small hours, then drink about three pints of water in the hope of staving off a hangover, clean my teeth and fall into bed.
In the morning, everything seemed grim and difficult again -- even making myself turn up on time was hard. Could I actually bring myself to say it out loud to Ms F?.
But there was nothing else for it. I'd made such a big thing of my grand job to my parents and my friends, boated about it, however subtly, to the others; I couldn't just walk away -- although I knew that was probably what I should do.
There was something else as well, something I'd been refusing to admit, but which was true. I really did have a crush on Mr Nathan. However weird, however pervy he had been, it .. it was, well, wonderful, really, to know that he found me attractive, that he liked my breasts -- even that he wanted to have a blow job from me, that was good too. I'd been thinking about the same thing the other way round only a few nights ago.. Just .. just why, why couldn't he have told me in .. well, a more romantic way?
I mean, I .. I thought I probably would like to show him my breasts. Like to have him touch them, tell me they were indeed as lovely as he'd imagined them. I definitely would like that, in fact.
But surely not as .. as a commercial transaction -- 'suck my cock and get a raise'..
