Not sure if he’s serious or not, I opt to bring him back to the issue at hand, namely how he can judge the quality of the club without seeing it first. Surely there’s only so much to learn from studying the books.
“Perspicacious as ever, little Freya. And you’re right of course. But it doesn’t matter what the club’s like now. After I complete the purchase I’ll run it according to my standards. My rules. I’ll change what I don’t like. If the existing staff are accustomed to running a tight ship, then fine, we’ll all get along. If not, we clear out and re-hire. The practicalities are pretty straightforward. I’ll send Frank in to run the dungeon for the first month or so, and then he’ll report to me on the general state of things. In particular he’ll tell me which staff to keep. If the current manager is a keeper then he or she can oversee any other changes that might be needed. If not, Ange will be the interim manager until I appoint a permanent replacement. She’ll need a deputy too, probably someone to train up who can then take over, and I’ve someone in mind for that.”
“It sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“Yup, once or twice.”
“But, you only own two, don’t you? This one would make three.”
“I’ve owned six clubs altogether, over the years. I sell on those that don’t make enough profit. So yes, currently I have two.”
Our conversation is interrupted as a rather dapper, middle-aged man comes bustling across the reception area, hand outstretched.
“Nick, my boy. How nice to see you. How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since Archie’s funeral. And how’s your lovely mother? “
My boy? Archie? Mother?
Nick turns to face the newcomer, and accepts the hearty handshake that soon develops into a warm man-hug. Is this how solicitors usually greet their clients in Manchester? I must remember to mention it to Max—he’ll know.
“Uncle Charles. Good to see you too. I’m fine, very well. And so’s mum. She’s still living in Seattle so I don’t see much of her. And can I introduce Freya Stone, my—”
I’d have loved to hear how he was intending to describe me so I’m mildly disappointed that he doesn’t get the chance to complete the introduction before ‘Uncle Charles’ is seizing my hand too and pumping it warmly.
“Delighted to meet you, my dear. Delighted. It’s about time our Nick had some decent female company. But— What’s happened to you? You’ve hurt yourself. Do you need to sit down?”
“Freya fell off a chair and broke her wrist at the weekend.”
Nick fills in the blanks, and if Uncle Charles thinks it odd that I don’t answer for myself he doesn’t comment on it. Come to think of it, he hardly takes the time to draw breath at all before he’s rushing on.
“Come through, come through. I’ve got everything ready for you. Our transactional team have drafted all the contracts and we just need some signatures from you, and then we can get your bank to transfer the cash into our client account. Then we can complete. The other side’s solicitor is standing by for a call from me, as soon as the funds clear. Then you’ve got yourself a club.”
He bustles off back towards the open lift doors, and we follow in his wake. Five minutes later we’re installed in a plush conference room on the third floor, a tray of fresh coffee and cream arranged on a side table, and papers spread out on the conference table in the middle. Nick pours coffee for all three of us as Uncle Charles scurries around doing final checks that all the documentation is in order. He’s muttering to himself the whole time, shuffling papers and generally fussing. Nick just watches and sips his coffee, an amused smile on his face. I do the same, feeling somewhat superfluous to this interaction but keenly interested in the process. It seems clear that Nick’s gone through this ritual before, and he waits patiently, his hip propped against the side table, until Uncle Charles finally turns to him and offers him a smart fountain pen. Nick puts his cup down and takes the pen.
“You need to sign here, and here, and here.” Charles points to the relevant documents, the spaces requiring signatures marked with a pencilled X.
Nick glances briefly at each document, then leans over and signs. He clearly trusts his uncle’s legal advice and the documents are soon in a neat pile in front of Charles.
We sit down then, our coffees refilled, and Nick and Charles make small talk at the table. I listen in and learn that Nick’s mother is called Olivia and that she’s married to a man who owns a construction company. She’s on her third husband now, and Nick sees her once or twice a year. He seems fond of her, though I get the impression that he’s less enamoured of his latest stepfather. Suddenly the phone on the side table trills loudly, and Charles gets up to answer it.
“Yes?” He waits a few seconds, then, “That’s lovely, thank you.” He replaces the receiver and turns to us once more.
“The funds have cleared. I’ll ring Stephen at Lawson’s. Then we’re done.”
While he’s on the phone I sign to Nick, “Who’s Stephen?”
He sips his coffee and helps himself to a fancy little biscuit. “Stephen Marchant, the solicitor acting for the vendor. As soon as Charles tells him the money’s in their account and that I’ve signed, the deal completes.”
I’m astonished—I never really gave any thought as to how these things happen, but I hadn’t expected it would all be done over the phone. Seems a little slack to me, and I say so. “But, what’s to stop Charles lying? Saying the money’s there when it isn’t?”
Nick smiles at me. “Fair point. It’s all down to professional ethics. He’d never work in commercial law again if he did such a thing. No, these guys trust each other, and they always deal honestly. That’s just how it works.”
Right. Pity things aren’t always that simple
.
* * * *
The club glories in the name of Heidi’s and is situated in a stylish building in the city centre, occupying three floors above a smart parade of designer shops and eateries. The entrance is discreetly tucked between an Italian restaurant and a kitchenware shop. I peer in the shop window as we wait to be let in through the door security system, and can’t spot anything costing less than a tenner. Even I’d gulp at the prospect of blowing over a hundred quid on a plain white teapot, but apparently someone must be prepared to spend that sort of money or the shop wouldn’t be in business. My frugal musings are interrupted by a disembodied female voice erupting from the shiny grill next to the door buttons. She asks if she can help us. Nick just states his name, offering no further explanation.
His fame must have preceded us. The door buzzes, and he shoves it open.
“We’re in. Come on. And remember, first impressions. Keep your eyes and ears open.” He takes my hand and we slip inside to find ourselves in another elegant foyer. This time Nick crosses straight to the lift and hits the call button. In no time we’re headed up to the third floor. We exit the lift to be met by a casually dressed man in grey chinos and an open neck yellow sports shirt. He’s accompanied by a rather scary-looking woman dressed in unrelieved black. Both are aged around thirty, and both seem to me to be nervous. I suppose it must be daunting, meeting your new boss, not sure if you’re going to keep your job or not. The man seems rather nondescript to me, but the woman is frankly stunning. Her clothes are anything but skimpy, a full-length tight-fitting dress with long sleeves and high neck, but she exudes sexuality. She takes one look at Nick and unleashes her charms on him, totally ignoring me.
For the next half hour or so Nick allows the Bride of Dracula to paw and fawn over him, rubbing herself against him at every opportunity like a cat in heat. I may be ungenerous here, but after the first five minutes she just gets on my nerves. Nick seems quite unmoved, which simply serves to encourage her to redouble her efforts. Our hosts know about the change in management, and I suspect they were on standby for this visit. They’re both eager to impress, but go about it in different ways.
The man tells us his name is Mark Mathers and he’s head of finance and membership services. The Dark Lady introduces herself as Portia Sinclair, and it seems she’s Frank’s counterpart here and queens it over the dungeon. She’s keen to show us around her domain, so we spend a jolly twenty minutes or so assessing the range of implements and equipment. I’m willing to bet neither of these two understands BSL so I feel free to make my comments to Nick as they occur to me.
“Ask her how they find out a new sub’s safe words. Where’s the first-aid equipment and who’s the qualified first aider? What’s their maximum drinks limit? Are submissives offered full membership? How do they supervise the private rooms?”
My list goes on, and Nick obligingly passes on my queries as though they were his own. The responses are not too worrying, although the supervision of what might go on behind closed doors seems a bit patchy as there’s no CCTV. I expect there soon will be.
“Ask her how she ensures the safety and well-being of submissives in the dungeon.” This is the killer question as far as I’m concerned.
“We have strict rules here. Apart from myself there are always at least two other staff on duty, male and female, gay and straight. We interrupt a scene that looks as though it might be non-consensual or getting on that way, and speak to the submissive out of the Dom’s hearing. We’ll listen to whatever he or she has to say, but unless we’re totally satisfied we will stop the scene. It’s rare that we have to do that, but it does happen occasionally.”
This is a good answer as far as I’m concerned. To her credit, Portia has come up with the goods.
“Is she a Domme?”
Nick makes the enquiry politely, and Portia explains that she is, when she needs to be. She’s actually what’s called a switch, which means she’s happy with either the Dominant or submissive role, a handy skill in a dungeon master or mistress. The final say will rest with Frank, but I wouldn’t mind betting she’ll keep her job.
I’m not so sure about the finance manager, though. His books seem to be in order or Nick would never have bought the club, but what he knows about membership services wouldn’t fill the back of a stamp. He’s quite unable to explain any sort of selection criteria, admissions policy, security arrangements or privacy controls. I can see Nick’s mounting irritation, and I know the hapless Mark’s days here are numbered.
By the time we’ve finished quizzing the two key staff, the rest of the team have been filtering in in readiness for the club opening at nine in the evening. Like most such establishments it will remain open now until three or maybe four in the morning. Nick suggests we stay for an hour or so, since we’re here, and get more of a feel for the place. I chose a pillar box red cocktail dress for the outing today, but in comparison to the other females now on the premises I still feel more than a little overdressed, even in contrast to Portia’s near total cover-up.
We opt to make ourselves comfortable in the dungeon, which soon fills up. This is certainly a popular venue in the Manchester BDSM scene, and I daresay Nick will find the place to be a good commercial investment. And Portia the witch queen does seem to be very much in charge, every inch the stern Dominatrix as she peers down her aristocratic nose at the couples and occasional threesomes ranged around the space. I’m gratified to see her make a beeline for a young man on the St Andrews cross as his partner lays into him with a whip. Although there seems to be no safe word uttered as far as I can tell, there’s something not quite right in the sub’s expression. Portia spots it too, and speaks to him quietly for a couple of minutes, then to his Dom. Although the scene continues, the whip seems to be wielded with considerably less force from then on. I don’t expect to warm to Portia—she’s too fierce for my liking, and too obviously attracted to Nick. I can’t help but respect her instincts in this place, though. She’ll get on well with Frank, I daresay.
“Do you fancy trying out the private facilities before we leave?” Nick leans in to whisper in my ear.
I must confess I’m tempted. All that suggestive slinking by Portia has put some interesting ideas in my head, and quite probably Nick’s too. And my nipples are still tingling from the suggestion that I might find myself suspended by them in the not too distant future. So it might be quite nice to reap the fruits of Portia’s labours. But I’m also tired, and on balance I’d prefer to try out our own facilities back in the privacy of Cartmel. I sign that to Nick, and he smiles his agreement.
“Right then, home.”
Home. It has a nice ring to it.
It’s just going up to midnight as Nick pulls up in his forecourt back in Cartmel. He kills the engine, and turns to face me.
“Portia’s a prize bitch, but she’s a damn good dungeon mistress from what I could see. Do you agree?”
I nod. That was pretty much my impression too.
“Mark, though, not so straightforward. He’s good with the spreadsheets but he’s got no idea beyond that. If he stays, he’ll be demoted to just cover finance.”
I nod again. “He might even be happier with that role. Didn’t seem cut out for all the rest. We should have asked if he’s in the lifestyle—that might make a difference. Create empathy.”
Now it’s Nick’s turn to nod. “Good point. I think I’ll offer him a numbers only role. So, that leaves the membership stuff and general management to be covered by someone else. I’m going to ask Ange to take on the role of temporary manager. And I’d like you to be her deputy.”
I’m stunned. I never, ever expected him to offer me a job. Do I even want a job?
“I don’t know, I wasn’t…”
He takes hold of my hands, effectively cutting off my flow of excuses. “Don’t make up your mind straight away. Think it through. I know you don’t need the money, so if it makes you feel better I won’t pay you.” He grins at my startled expression. “Oh, not so keen on that prospect after all? Right. You can start on twenty-five thousand a year pro rata, increasing to thirty after six months. You’d need to be in Manchester one or two nights a week, but you could do a lot of it remotely. And you’d be good at it, Freya. You’d look out for the subs, and that’s what’s important. It sets the tone. Good, clean—well, clean-ish—consensual, safe fun. Oh, and you can think of a new name for the place. Something nice and edgy.”