Office Perks (25 page)

‘No . . . do me again, when you can. Shit! Move!'

He'd heard it too, and he didn't need telling, the growl of an engine, which could only possibly be Charles's car. Sam tired to pull out, which hurt so much I had to tell him to slow down, wasting precious seconds as Charles's tyres crunched on the gravel outside. As the engine died, as we caught voices, Charles, and Paul Castellani and Dan Bergman, Charles again.

‘Lucy! We're back. Fetch some beers, would you?'

My teeth Were gritted in pain as Sam finally pulled free, hopped back, tripped over his lowered shorts and
went flat on his face on the floor. I was already scrambling for my robe, which was on the floor, leaving me in an unutterably lewd pose as Charles's footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.

‘Lucy?'

‘Hi, Charles. I'm up here. Give me a moment, will you?'

‘What's the matter?'

I'd got my robe, and I'd pulled it on, albeit inside out, as Sam lurched out onto the balcony. Charles appeared, but I was sitting on the bed in my robe, dishevelled, sweaty, but alone. Sam was gone, and dashed for the steps down to the garden, straight into Paul Castellani and Dan Bergman as they came around the corner.

The aftermath was horrid, shouting and screaming, accusations and threats, ending with me throwing my things together as Charles stood to one side in cold anger. Sam had run for it, with both Americans in angry pursuit, if not for long. They'd returned, puffing and full of righteous indignation for what Sam had done, for what I'd done.

I didn't even bother to answer their reproaches, walking away in near blind fury. Charles tried to call me back as I reached the gates of the villa and got a V-sign for his trouble. Thinking they might follow in the car I took off cross-country, through rocky scrub land that quickly left my legs scratched and the dress I'd thrown on badly torn around the hem, which only made me more angry.

Finally I came out onto another track, hot, sweaty and bedraggled. I'd begun to calm down, and was wondering what I should do beyond my immediate need, which was to get out of the sun and quench my thirst. There was a shack visible some way ahead, the corrugated iron roof shimmering in the heat haze, with a green sign next
to it. I made for it, praying it was a bar of some sort, which it was.

The owner didn't seem particularly surprised to see me, and let me have some badly needed water. Sitting in the shade of an awning with my bags around me, feeling utterly fed up, I tried to take stock.

I was not going back, no way. My pride wouldn't let me crawl to Charles, not if it meant I had to swim back to England. I had my passport, but no money, or tickets. I could call home, but it was going to take a lot of explaining, and if the truth came out I would, never, ever, hear the end of it. I could call Bobbie and ask her to wire me some money. She'd understand and help, although I had no idea how to go about it, and would obviously need to get to Matthew Town first.

For the moment it was the sensible thing to do; get to Matthew Town, where I could get official help, or maybe work in a bar until I had the money for a flight home. Anything, so long as it didn't involve Charles King, or risk my family and Niall finding out what had really been going on.

Getting a lift was easy. A battered truck pulled in for petrol, driven by an old man and stacked with watermelons under a tarpaulin. I asked if he was going to Matthew Town and he agreed to take me, not even asking for petrol money. He talked non-stop all the way, and demanded a kiss when we arrived, our destination a fruit wholesalers. I gave it willingly, and got a watermelon as well as my lift.

It was only a little way down to the water, where there was a smart hotel complex, then an open beach where a rickety pier extended into the sea. I went to sit on the pier, removing my shoes and dangling my aching feet into the water as I ate my melon and thought over my predicament. My anger had died down, but I still
wasn't going back to the villa. Charles King could rot before he'd have the satisfaction of me crawling to him.

The best bet had to be to find somebody who could give me advice, perhaps a more experienced traveller. Certainly I should avoid going to the authorities if I possibly could, because that would mean explanations which, in the long run, were sure to lead to trouble. I wondered what a chambermaid or bartender was paid in the huge white concrete hotel along the beach. Probably not very much. It was better to wire Bobbie for help.

In the UK it would be evening. Being mid-week, she'd probably be in. I got up and started along the beach. The hotel seemed as good a place to call from as any, but I looked a complete ragamuffin. I needed to change, something that was hardly going to attract attention on a beach. Digging into my bags, I found a white cocktail dress I'd brought in case Charles took me anywhere formal for dinner – an idea that now drew a bitter laugh to my lips.

Outside the hotel the beach was crowded, but on my side of a low fence there were only a few stragglers, none of whom were taking any notice of me anyway. Quickly peeling off my dress, I slipped it on and extracted my bra through the side. A moment with a mirror and hairbrush and I no longer looked as if I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, although I still felt sticky and uncomfortable. It would have to do, and I made for the hotel.

The lobby was a huge, airy space, with cool air blowing down in a refreshing curtain immediately inside the door. I paused for a moment, enjoying the wonderfully fresh feel after the stifling heat outside, before walking across to the reception desk. A middle-aged man with a paunch hanging over a pair of vivid green and yellow shorts was managing to hold the attention of
both the girls in banana-yellow uniforms, trying ineffectually to chat them up, and both turned as I approached.

I explained that I was stranded and needed to call someone to wire me some money; that I didn't have any on me but would gladly pay the appropriate charges when I did, and asked if I could contact a friend in the UK. They were sympathetic, but had to consult the manager, who proved to be a cow.

No, I couldn't make a call without paying at the time.

No, it didn't matter that I had no money and needed to make the call before I could pay for it.

No, this was a hotel, not a charity. I should go to the police station in town.

In the end I left before she could instruct the two yellow-uniformed heavies who'd begun to hover to throw me out. Feeling thoroughly fed up, I went outside, to sit on my bags by the roadside. There were other hotels, or it might even be an idea to try a private house. Eventually I'd succeed, probably once I found a man to ask.

I was about to move on when the big American in the colourful shorts approached me, his red face split by a big, dirty grin, his hand extended in welcome.

‘Hi, I'm Harry. You say you're stranded, clean out of money?'

‘Yes.'

He sank down on his haunches, nodding and beaming.

‘How much d'you need?'

‘I'm not sure. Just enough for my airfare, but I couldn't possibly ask –'

‘Uh, uh, stop right there. You ain't asking nothing, missy, not for free. You just come up to Harry's room for an hour, or maybe two, and I'll pay your air fare, and maybe a bit over. You know, I'm looking for some female
company on this little holiday of mine. My wife back home, she don't like the heat too much. But I love it, and the local honeys too.'

He let out a jovial belly laugh, devoid of all embarrassment or shame. He was brash and boisterous and it was obvious what he meant, blatantly obvious, and I was left gaping at his sheer nerve, too taken aback even to kick him in the balls. He took my silence, and my expression, for rejection, and stood up with a shrug.

‘You just think about my offer then, missy, and if you change your mind, I'm in five-seven-two, that's suite five-seven-two.'

He gave a final nod, let his gaze linger on my chest for a moment and made for the hotel. I watched him walk away, full of outrage and shock that he could have suggested such a thing, and so casually. And yet it would be so easy, a quick shag, something I'd done many times for the fun of it, sometimes just because I was drunk and some guy was persistent, so why not for money? I shook my head, amazed that I could even think such a thing.

He was overweight, crude, as old as my Dad.

But younger than Charles King.

Although not as good looking, or wealthy.

Not that wealth ought to matter.

Yet he was seriously sleazy.

And letting Sam bugger me wasn't?

I bit my lip, trying to find a really, really good reason not to do it. The disapproval of my family didn't matter, or at least, it was theoretical disapproval, because I was hardly going to tell them. I guess that was a bit of the old Catholic guilt creeping in. I'd always been told as a little girl that God could see everything – a shameful thought that still reminds me of what a sinner I am, if I think about it too much. If anything it helped weaken my resolve. Nor did I care what Niall would think, while
I was sure both Bobbie, and Sophie even more, would not only understand, but support my decision. I was going to do it.

He was halfway back to the hotel, sauntering in the evening light. I got up before I could lose my nerve, hurrying after him with my bags bumping on the ground. A passing tourist gave me an odd look, which I ignored, despite the uncomfortable feeling that she was able to read my mind, thinking, look at that Irish slut. If only her family knew what she was doing.

‘Excuse me, Harry. Hang on a minute,' I shouted.

He stopped and turned. I was wondering just what the hell I thought I was doing as I caught up with him, but it didn't stop me.

‘I've changed my mind. OK?'

He gave me his big, sloppy grin.

‘I thought you looked a sensible girl.'

‘Yeah, right. My air fare, OK, and enough to get me to the airport, and from Heathrow back to London.'

‘You're on, baby,' he said, expansively, as if he was the new Austin Powers or something.

His hand closed on my bottom as he steered me through the door. A twinge of resentment caught me, but I didn't speak out. He'd paid to touch, and there was no use complaining.

I felt odd as we crossed the lobby, ascended in the lift and walked down a long corridor to his suite. I felt detached, as if I wasn't really there, but observing another girl going to her fate. Once in the room he wasted no time as he asked me to pose for him, teasing with my dress, showing off the seat of my knickers, playing peek-a-boo with my tits, sticking out my bottom and slowly unveiling my cheeks, before finally going nude.

By then his shorts and sandals were off and his cock
was a hard pink pole in his hand. He was so eager, almost bursting, which made it very, very easy to take charge. I took him by the cock, led him into the showers and went down on him as cool water cascaded over our naked bodies. He was sighing with pleasure as I sucked him, and to my surprise he was complimenting me, on my hair, my waist, my tits, my bum, even my accent.

When the time came to ‘do the nasty', as he called it, I stood up and put my hand against the wall with my bottom stuck out towards him and the water trickling down between my cheeks. He gave a grunt of satisfaction at the sight, put his cock to me, and then deep up my pussy. I got my fucking, braced against the wall with my bum cheeks jiggling to the thrusts while he grunted and puffed his way to a noisy, gasping orgasm, pulling out at the last second to do it over my bottom.

An hour later I had a flight booked on his credit card and a hundred dollars in my pocket. Two hours later and we were discussing Dublin over a gourmet meal washed down with White Star Moet champagne. Three hours and I was giving him a genuinely affectionate peck on the cheek outside the hotel. Four, and I was at the airport. Five, in the air, on my way back to London.

I felt good. Not saintly good, but good all the same. I congratulated myself on my resourceful attitude. After all, I'd done what I had to do. It didn't make me a bad person. It didn't make me immoral. It made me strong.

10 September, 7.57 a.m. – Lucy Doyle is woken by the telephone.

10 September, 7.58 a.m. – Lucy Doyle prepares to be sacked, again.

I'D ESCAPED INAGUA,
but it was rather a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. As I touched down at Heathrow I was rather wishing I'd stayed, perhaps for the full two weeks until I was due to go up to uni, even if it did mean being merrily porked round the islands by Dirty Harry.

For one thing, I wasn't supposed to be back, and there would have to be explanations. For another, although I'd squared things with Niall, Todd Byrne was still an issue, along with Luke, Keith, Richard Drake, Hilary Chalmers, maybe even Big Dog the rent boy and Aaron of the big black cock. Thirdly, there was Super Staff, because I couldn't see Charles King just letting it go.

Sure enough, when the phone rang before eight on the Friday morning it was Maryam Smith and she wanted me in at the office without delay. I went, wondering what she knew and what to say. King would hardly have told her the truth, but he could well have made up some outrageous story, and at best it would be my word against his. Very likely I was going to get the sack, but all I could think of was to keep quiet and hope for the best.

I bought a doughnut in the Edgware Road, killing time before going up and wondering if just possibly the whole thing was a false alarm, as before. It wasn't. Mrs Smith was behind her desk, stern-faced and leafing through my file. She waded straight in.

‘Miss Doyle. Good morning. I regret to say that a complaint has been made against you.'

‘Yes?'

My tone was supposed to be surprised and aggrieved. It came out as guilty. Hers was sharp as she went on.

‘Mrs Henshaw at the Tilbury Bond . . .'

Relief washed over me, closely followed by consternation. If King hadn't complained, it was only because he was still in Inagua and probably thought I was too.