Shameless Exposure (2 page)

 
Two

“You said you wouldn’t do anything like that again.” Robert, sitting at his desk going through a case file, did not turn round to look at her.

“But this is for charity,” said Caroline.

“It may be a good cause, but we agreed – no more Bluebell.”

“God I hate living with a lawyer; it’s like everything I ever said is taken down and used against me.”

“Can’t you see?” said Robert. “He’s trying to get you into his studio under a pretext.”

“Robert, it will spoil things if you’re suspicious of every innocent thing I do. You like it well enough when I play being Bluebell at home. Erik is an old, old friend. And it’s not a pretext. It’s a high-class art calendar which will raise money for breast cancer research. It’s not just the calendar – the paintings will be auctioned off. Erik’s paintings fetch thousands.”

“But why does it have to be you, Caroline?”

“He said my red hair would be perfect for November. And because I sat for him before it would be a lot easier than dealing with a new model.”

Robert finally turned to face her. “I can see you two have discussed this in depth already.”

“I met him on the train going down to Devon when I visited Bettina. He’s got a gallery and a studio in Torquay and spends half his time there now. He was on his way for the opening of a new exhibition and he invited me to the opening night.”

“So that was your night out in Torquay. What did Bettina think of Erik’s exhibition? Come to think of it, he’s the obvious choice for a breast cancer charity.”

“She loved it. My mother’s not hung up about nakedness like your family. There’s no point in us having a row about this. I want to do it. Erik’s an interesting person with lots of interesting friends.” Like Xena, who had told her about the Orgatron Training Centre and the fantastic things it had done for her sex life. She blushed at the memory of her failed attempt to visit the centre.

“What’s been going on, Caroline?”

“Nothing. Look, I’ve decided I’ll do it so let’s not have a row. I met Erik’s other models for a drink and they’re really nice people. You would love Xena, she’s just your type.”

“What type is that?”

“Blonde, big tits, French accent. She’s August. January is an ice maiden and May dyes her hair green. Erik’s not interested in me, he’s fascinated by Xena. Anyway, you can talk. I can’t believe you’re serious about representing Madame Melody.”

“That’s work, not leisure. Melody is using Forbes-Brown to contest the withholding of her share options. Your success on the European hub has pushed Monsaint’s share price up so much that about fifteen million rests on the outcome. Forbes-Brown wants an early opinion.”

“What about conflict of interest?”

“Officially, there’s no conflict of interest. Forbes-Brown knows nothing about our involvement with Melody last year. I’ve got to do it. I can’t afford to pick and chose.”

“Well you’d better be careful.” Caroline blushed again at the memory of how Melody had manipulated her into indiscretions with work colleagues.

“I don’t think you need worry. She’s living a quiet life out of the limelight on a remote Scottish island. She says she needs the share option money for a religious foundation. She’s even changed her name – again.”

“Again? I can’t imagine she wasn’t always called Melody Bigger.”

“She changed her name when she was nineteen. Decided she didn’t like her parents or their name and invented a new one.”

“So what’s she changed it to now?”

“Regina. Regina Heart.”

♥ ♥ ♥

“Come in, come in, take a seat. The star of Frankfurt has returned.” Andreas Rivera-Castillo met her at the door to his office and guided her to a leather armchair, one of four arranged around a low table.

It was the first time she had been admitted to his inner sanctum. The chairs were usually reserved for the four people who were the engine of Monsaint Medical Instruments: the Chairman, grey-haired Anthony Belvoir; the finance director, and Caroline’s boss, Ivan Kalashnikov; Andreas, Chief Executive; and his dynamic PA and company secretary, Julia Sinbad. When it came to decisions in Monsaint, the rest of the board, the senior management team, and the major shareholders could all go to hell. Every decision of significance was taken around that low table with not a paper agenda in sight.

She sat upright, not back in the chair, and crossed her legs, showing off her high-heeled leather boots, a present from Cosimo Baldissi. The silver side buckle reminded her of spurs. She had learnt a few useful things from Melody Bigger – how to dress from the bottom upwards and from the inside outwards. Frankfurt was full of brilliantly designed underwear, smooth and tight as a BMW. She had achieved an hourglass figure calculated to appeal to an American Chief Executive.

Unfortunately she had miscalculated the dress code. When Andreas had offered an early evening meeting to give her time to fly over from Frankfurt, she had expected to meet a man in an expensive suit who, if things went well, would invite her for a cocktail after work. Instead she was faced with a regular guy in a check shirt, designer trainers and jeans, dark stubble already beginning to appear on his face.

“Thanks for fitting in a meeting at short notice, Mr Castillo.”

“Call me Andreas. It was like you read my mind. I’ve seen all your reports of course but I wanted a personal update on the European hub. You’ve done fantastically well in the past year but it’s vital that progress in maintained, accelerated if possible. Against all the odds, Europe has been the source of most of our growth. Tell me, how you did it?”

She had prepared for many questions, but not that one. She had no idea how she’d done it. It had just happened. Doors had been miraculously opened. All she had had to do was to mention to Cosimo or Von Wolfswinkle that she’d like to meet so-and-so and an invitation would be forthcoming. Any obstacles, like change of use for a storage facility, were overcome with a phone call to a helpful official who seemed to be expecting her call.

Von Wolfswinkle had come up trumps with any capital investment needed, refinancing Monsaint’s 1990’s enormous loans without a quibble. And Morag Moran: what a woman she turned out to be. What Miss Moran didn’t know about logistics was really not worth knowing. Although now elevated to international finance and politics, her name and fortune had been made through
Demon Delivery
. The flames of their logo streaked down the motorways and across the air lanes of Europe seven days a week.

“It’s just hard work - and good timing,” she said. “All I’ve done is implement the board’s strategy. Recession has made the Germans and the French even more concerned about their health. But now it’s all set up, I feel I’m ready for another challenge. I’m sure one of my colleagues – Antonia Anderson, for example – could build on the progress already made, maybe bring something new to the table.”

“Okay. Now I like that in my people - ready for another challenge. But I also like not fixing things that aren’t broken. You’ll have to work harder to convince me.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, displaying her German-engineered cleavage, and spoke quietly. “I’ve been looking at South America. It’s almost virgin territory. If we don’t get in there now, the bloody Americans will clean up. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Andreas laughed at her gaff. “Hey, I like your style. What are you doing this evening?” Bingo, the cocktail invitation she was hoping for.

“Do you like soccer?” he continued. “One of my pals can’t come to the game this evening.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Tottenham Hotspurs. Our boy Clint plays for them.”

“You have a son?”

“No, I mean he’s a Yank like me. All the Americans in London go to see him play. He’s a genius.”

“Well thanks for the invitation but probably I should get home. I don’t spend much time there these days. Hang on a minute; I’ve just remembered Robert’s going to watch his team play tonight. Somewhere called White Hart Lane.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me your husband supports Manchester United. What about you? Who do you support?”

“Well, no-one actually. Football… soccer wasn’t a big thing in Devon. I was more of a hockey girl.”

“Great game, hockey. I didn’t know you had rinks over here.”

“Rinks? No we used to play in a field. Is it different now?”

“I guess it must be.” They lapsed into a mystified silence.

Andreas slapped his thigh to break the deadlock. “Well if your husband is at the game you might as well come too. But you probably won’t see him. They keep the supporters separate in this country for some reason. And you can tell me more about your idea for South America at half time.”

♥ ♥ ♥

She was escorted into the football ground by a bodyguard of strong jawed Americans. Andreas’s pals were, like him, ex-patriot executives. They joked and laughed like teenagers, excited about a few hours away from work, though still with one eye on incoming emails on their smartphones. They pulled her leg about her fancy attire but enjoyed having a female to show off to. The first glimpse of the pitch as they walked up from the concourse into the stadium took Caroline’s breath away.

“Gosh, I wish my lawn looked like that.” The grass, sprayed with water to make the ball zip and lit with thousand kilowatt floodlights, sparked like a phosphorescent sea. But once the game had started she decided it was not a lawn, it was a stage. The actors were clearly playing to the audience, crashing to the ground like wrestlers, pulling pantomime expressions. They clutched their ankles as if in terrible pain, only to jump to their feet ten seconds later, running the length of the field as if nothing was wrong.

She had to sit on a tiny seat squashed next to Andreas and in the middle of the Clint Dempsey supporters club. She tugged at her skirt but the fact was her legs were on show in the freezing night air. She was so close to Andreas that it was impossible for their legs not to touch. He patted her knee every time something significant happened on the pitch.

She could see a few other women in the crowd but it smelt of men. A rough good humour threatened to turn into something more aggressive at any moment. Someone fell over on the pitch and she heard some very rude words, spoken as if no woman was within earshot. She scanned the stand next to theirs, a sea of red and white, hoping to see Robert. She wished she had agreed to go to a game with him at least once before because at least she would have some idea what was going on.

A man in yellow shirt seemed to be important. He had two assistants, one with a ponytail, who didn’t come onto the field but ran up and down the side. The one on the field blew loudly on a whistle all the time and gesticulated like a French traffic policeman. He pointed, he shook his head, and occasionally marched towards one of the players brandishing a piece of coloured cardboard. When this happened, the audience either booed or cheered, but she had no idea why.

She had refused Robert’s invitations of the grounds that she would be bored. In fact, she was riveted, and left her seat only once when the ball flew into the net, deflected off one of the men in red, and everyone around her leapt to their feet and punched the air. Andreas, overcome with joy, hugged her enthusiastically.

“I told you he’s a genius, our boy Clint.”

“Yes, but didn’t it hit a red man’s foot? Isn’t that a penalty corner?”

“A what? You must be thinking of football – an incomplete pass. This is soccer,” explained Andreas, though Caroline was none the wiser.

As they sat down again, a thousand strong male voice choir started a melodious chant, echoing to the vaults of the stand:

“He scores with his left, He scores with his ri…ight

Our boy Clint Dempsey, Makes Torres look shite…”

When half-time came most of the crowd disappeared back into the concourse. Caroline and Andreas stayed in their seats.

“So what d’you think of soccer?” he asked.

“I love it. It’s like when I go to the theatre in Frankfurt. I can feel the drama, even though I don’t understand the words. How do the crowd know what’s happened when it’s so fast? They seem so certain.”

“I don’t know. It’s easier in America because they review it all on a big screen and then the officials decide. Here, the crowd decides and then the referee blows his whistle. You better tell me why you really want to come back from Frankfurt. It must be something serious when you’re doing so well. Is your marriage suffering?”

“I can’t pretend it’s easy with Robert. We’re both away so much we have little time together.”

Andreas nodded agreement. “It’s the same for me and Trish. She stayed back in the States. You can’t put your whole life on hold. You still have to enjoy yourself a little. We’ll find you a desk back in London and work out the details later.”

“You mean you agree?”

“Yes, of course. Not all Chiefs are bastards.”

“Thanks, Andreas. I really appreciate it.” She returned the hug she had received when Clint scored. Their embrace was interrupted by the return of Americans bearing gifts of foot long hot-dogs and plastic bottles of coke. As they sat eating and trying not to spill mustard on their clothes, Andreas turned to her.