The Boleyn Effect (The Boorman Ending) (2 page)

CHAPTER
TWO

Harry Cobain is a serial
womanizer. That much I’ve heard about my potential target. I have
hung around the Uni with George enough to know that. But George
pretty much filled me in after I agreed to the bet. My drink addled
brain managed to soak up the fact that the Dean has bedded many of
the female students and even some of the staff members. Being only
in his mid-forties, he apparently has appeal.

I've never had the
pleasure of meeting him, so have no idea if the rumours are true.
But I suppose I'll find out soon enough. Personally, a man who
abuses his sexual prowess neither impresses nor turns me on. I
don't mind some swagger and confidence, but arrogance is a no. I’m
going to need to put any acting skills I have and push them to the
max for this one, I can tell. At least I won't have to sleep with
him. Just use the good old fashioned charm offensive.

My head pounds as I
finally pull myself from my duvet. Now awake, I’m wondering if this
is such a good idea. This isn't stripping naked or snogging some
random stranger in a bar and the last time we did something near on
this stupid we seriously nearly paid the price. This is full on
life changing stuff and I'm on my own in this one. My phone buzzing
with a message makes my post drink nausea hangover
worse.

Are you still up for
project Boleyn?

My idle laptop beeps,
telling me I have a message. Groaning, I already know who it's
from. He never gives up and I am going to need breakfast first or
at least some really strong coffee. Once I got both, I sit down and
run my finger over the mouse pad. There's an email waiting with a
link attached. Clicking on it, I begin to read about the second
wife of Henry VIII.

Anne Boleyn was twenty
six, just a year younger than me, when she caught the attention of
the king. She was not his usual type. Too slim with a small chest.
Apparently the Tudor court loved their curvaceous women.

Yet this woman made Henry
crazy with lust and eventually fell in love. The power she held
over the king was immense and because of her, two of Henry's
closest advisors were killed. She turned the country on its head.
Not bad for a slip of a woman who was considered plain and all she
did was promise the king her virginity and a son.

'Men,' I mutter. 'It's all
about their cocks and what they can do with it.'

I have no idea how George
is expecting me to keep this Harry's interest. After all a son is
no longer enough in this day and age and my virginity is long gone.
Taken by an over eager fifteen year old and given away a little too
easily by an equally over eager teenager.

A relationship that had
all the promise of romantic teenage sweethearts. Yeah, Romeo and
Juliet had a lot to answer for. Romeo didn't screw around with
Juliet's best friend, but then I suppose he died long before he got
the chance.

Leaving the screen to go
idle once more, I prepare for my day ahead. I know there will be
dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, but nothing a little
make-up won't hide. I've always been pale skinned and with my
brunette hair, I look almost porcelain. So any lack of sleep or
overindulgence shows instantly. There have been occasions where
people have commented that I’m a classic beauty, but George often
uses the word bewitching, which I'm never sure is a compliment or
not.

On my bed is a pair of
comfy battered denim shorts and a vest top. My job involves me to
be able to move freely and be comfortable. It also requires me to
take extra smarter clothes for those times when I am called to sell
my services.

I’m a freelance
photographer with a small rented space, which I live above on
Gillygate in York. Just a few doors down from a vibrant but tacky
bar called The Pink Pony. A bar that George, Clair and I regulate
often at the start of any night out. In fact it’s the first thing
you see down there. A bright pink bar. Oh and maybe the subtle blue
Adult Shop.

I've lived here for near
on six years, after moving away from my hometown in
Northamptonshire. I basically followed George to North Yorkshire
after we left the sunny climes of Kos. My days are mostly filled
with screaming children whose parents want me to work magic so they
look like angels. To objects that some company want to advertise
and sell, although, to tell the truth those objects are easier to
work with.

To my friends, I'm Leigh,
but to my family it's Leigh-Anne Boorman. Unlike George, I wasn't
born with a silver spoon in my mouth. In fact, my parents are as
working class as they come. I had to work damn hard to get where I
am today, but admittedly knowing George has made things
smoother.

After leaving my art
A-levels to go travelling, I soon found myself in so much debt that
I was drowning. But there were other things that were helping in
the drowning process. Much darker forces that I had succumbed to in
order to fit in with the right sort of crowd. George was sleeping
with my roommate, but it was he and I that clicked instantly.
George pulled me through and even found me this place to start up.
All loans, which I pay back, but I owe George so much more than
cold hard cash. I owe him my life and that's the biggest chalk mark
on the slate.

He's like my big brother
and very protective. So protective that Clair has often told me
that he's the real reason I have never been able to settle down
with men. I love him to bits, but the balance of friendship is not
equal, which is one of the reasons that this stupid challenge seems
appealing. I don't like being in debt to him and sometimes I do
think he uses that power against me. But those occasions are very
rare and usually involve him trying to get inside my pants. However
the cold light of day always makes things much clearer. Now I'm not
sure it's worth it or even possible. Can a man really fall in love
with a woman by just flirting? Even a married man who is no doubt
bored. He's gonna want sex, because that's probably what's missing
from his marriage.

Unlocking my door, Clair
waits for me. She is my business life saver. She makes sure my
files are filed and my diary is full and organised, because I am
totally useless when it comes to organisation. My office always
looks chaotic.

Clair completes our trio.
With a short cropped blonde hair and model like figure and dresses
like one. The mystery to me is why she and George never made a play
for each other. But I wonder if I am the reason it's not happened.
But then I would never expect that Clair would put up with his
bullshit as much as I do. Too much of a level head.

'How's the head?' I ask,
as I bring the studio to life.

Clair goes straight to the
coffee machine and punches in a command for two strong black
coffees, which really gives me my answer.

'It's like there's a herd
of elephants in there,' she moans.

'Well it looks like it's a
quiet one today. You can go home once we're done,' I
offer.

'Have we any kids in?' she
asks.

'Two separate families
with only one child each, so I wouldn't worry about that. Have you
heard anything from the uni about the graduation gig?'

Clair sits down at the
desk and fires up the desktop.

'I'll check the
emails.'

I leave her to get on and
grabbing my own coffee start to organise my equipment. The
University can pay a photographer a fortune if they are picked for
the graduation and their official one passed away. This left all
the local photographers scrambling to get the gig, myself included.
Now I'm waiting for the call, because if I get it I'll be set up
for years. But for now, I have to make do with my regulars. My
first client is due in the half hour and that's enough time for me
to get set up and most importantly allow the caffeine to
work.

I rent out two floors of a
three story Victorian town house and I've tried to keep the
original features where I can. The ground floor is rented by some
new age witch who sells magic spells and other tat that I've no
interest in. She's nice enough and even offered some blessing when
I moved in to the other two floors. She even allows me to put
signage up to direct them to the side door that leads to my studios
entrance. It's not the most appealing having to walk through a dark
brick tunnel come alley way, but I can't complain about the
footfall.

On my level the walls are
stripped back to bare brick and covered in my own prints to
advertise and sell to customers. There is a small narrow walkway
that opens up into a small entrance, come waiting area and in there
is a small cast iron fireplace, which I actually love.

Then there is the open
area that is my studio with practical, but soft carpet. In here is
where I create my magic and also doubles up in one corner as
Clair's domain and office. Finally, my own tiny broom cupboard of
an office sits in the far corner and because of its size I'm barely
in it. Much to Clair's frustration.

'My desk is not your
personal overflow system,' she always moans.

The second floor is where
I live. The flat that I've made home and can be accessed by some
narrow stairs. It has its advantages, but sometimes I wish I could
close the door on the studio and go home. Instead, work and home
are mingled. Not that I should complain.

The flat is a nice size
with a good sized bedroom and living room. Filled with my own
personal tastes, it's actually the first home where I've lived
alone. A big step for me, but I'm glad I did it. But this was
achieved though George and yet another chalk mark added.

CHAPTER
THREE

'I know how we are going
to do this.'

'Do you mind if I come in
first?'

George moves to one side
so that I can enter his room. He lives on the university campus and
has a pretty decent room compared to some. It even has an en-suite.
Having Pops on the board really helps I guess, not that I'd ever
say that to him. I notice that George is wearing a shirt and tie
which means only one thing.

Now George is a very
controlled man, but he also likes to be looked after. Everything
has its place and things have to be done in a certain way. This can
be draining, especially as I'm so chaotic. He wears good expensive
clothes, but nothing chav as he would call it.

'This is chav,' he would
say going through my wardrobe. 'Try dressing with some class. If I
had my way this would all be gone and you'd dress like a
woman.'

But my argument is that he
can afford to and I can't. My money has to go elsewhere not on my
wardrobe. But he does like his mum, me and even Clair to run-around
after him.

'Is your father
coming?'

'Is it that obvious?' he
asks.

'Just a tad.'

Sitting down, I give him a
knowing smile. Gaskill is some high flying lawyer and is the bane
of George's life. The Gaskill family is real big family where law
and finance are merged into one empire. Of course I am the
distraction that Gaskill hates. The reason George has not joined
the family business. Of course anyone who knows George knows that
he does exactly what he wants. But he already looks defeated and
the man is not even here yet. The epic battle of wills between
father and son is an on-going one and usually George loses one way
or another.

'So there is some charity
event going on at the end of the week and Harry Cobain is going to
be there. So will you be my plus one?' George asks sitting beside
me.

'Is that why your father
is visiting?'

'Who knows? Look, it will
be an excellent opportunity for you to get noticed without it being
obvious.'

'Have you even considered
in this great master plan the possibility that he may not even like
me?' I ask.

George gives me one of his
incredulous looks, like I've just said something stupid.

'I've ordered you a dress
for the night. All you have to do is flutter those eyelashes and
show some cleavage and you'll have him. The man loves his
women.'

'So I hear,' I mutter.
'And his wife? Does she know?'

'Know what?'

'What we are
doing?'

'Leave that to me. Trust
me,' George smiles.

The door swinging open
makes us both stand. Gaskill steps into the room and the
temperature drops a couple of degrees. Standing there in a charcoal
coloured suit and short greying hair is the man who hates me. The
Head of the Gaskill Empire. George Thomas Gaskill.

Even though he's a man in
his late forties it's still obvious that the man played rugby
during his college years. But instead of comforting, the size feels
intimidating, because I'm aware that it's something that Gaskill
likes to use as a weapon against us meagre plebs.

'Miss Boorman,' he manages
to say with little civility. 'I trust you are well.'

'Yes Mr. Gaskill,' I
answer.

'George, I was hoping we
could have a chat.'

That's it. The formalities
are over and giving me a will you fuck off glare I catch the hint.
Plus, I don't really want to sit here and watch my best friend
belittled and bullied any more then I need to. Grabbing my jacket,
I reach for the door just as George takes my arm and pulls me
towards him.