Читать книгу Idol - Carrie Duffy - Страница 14

The offices of Willis & Bourne were located on the twenty-fourth floor of the Broadgate Tower, in the heart of London’s Square Mile. Paul Austin, as a senior executive, had a private office at the far end of the corridor, guarded by his PA. As the early morning sun filtered through the tinted windows, Paul sat behind his kidney-shaped desk, leafing through a copy of the Financial Times. There was an unfavourable report on a Japanese telecoms firm in which he’d just invested a large portion of his clients’ money. It did not make for happy reading. Irritably, he tossed the paper aside and turned his attention to the Internet, flicking through share prices, business headlines and breaking news.

One headline caught his attention – it involved Jenna Jonsson. Paul read swiftly through the article and found himself even more interested. So, Miss Jonsson wasn’t as squeaky clean as she made out, it seemed, and some lucky guy was getting to bang her. Paul’s cock leapt in his pants at the very thought of it. Jenna was one hot piece of ass – he’d have sold his own grandmother for a fuck with Jenna. Then again, Paul Austin would willingly have sold out his grandmother for a lot of things in life – loyalty was not one of his defining traits.

Paul’s interest in Jenna went beyond that of the casual voyeur or horny teenager. As of last month, she was one of his newest clients. It was still fresh in his mind, the way she’d strutted into his office dressed like Business Barbie, in a tight pencil skirt that showed off her high, round butt, and a low-cut white blouse that strained against her tits every time she leaned forward. Of course, she’d brought her manager with her, some jumped-up flunky in a suit who’d watched Paul’s every move like a hawk, so he’d had to keep things professional. He’d talked at length about dry stuff – real estate in Bulgaria, mineral mining in South Africa, investment yields, long-term trends and so on. She’d nodded that pretty little head and all he’d been thinking about was how much he’d like to put his dick between those luscious, glossy lips and force it deep into the back of her throat until she gagged.

It was highly unusual for a client of that calibre to visit him in his office – usually it was a question of their accountant contacting him directly and all communication went through them. But he gathered she’d been on some kind of independence kick since her mother died. Wanting to take over her own affairs, manage her own money or some such bullshit. Stick to singing, sweetheart, thought Paul with a sneer.

But hell, as long as it had led Jenna Jonsson straight to his office, who was he to complain? Maybe next time he could get her to come over without that ape of a manager. He could ring her up with some spurious excuse; pretend to be consulting her because he really valued her opinion on whether they should invest in American pharmaceuticals or ethical fashion in India. They could conduct business over dinner. Or in a hotel room. Yeah, that’s the kind of business he’d like to conduct with her …

Which reminded him …

‘Come through please, Angela,’ he requested, pressing a button on his phone. Angela Lee was his PA. She was in her mid-thirties, short and a little on the chunky side, with mousy hair cut into a bob and black-rimmed glasses. It was better that way. In the past Paul had hired a succession of attractive and willing temps, but numerous affairs and one narrowly avoided harassment claim later, he’d plumped for the plain yet capable Angela.

She arrived in his office with her notebook and pen at the ready. Her clothes were smart, and she’d made an effort with her make-up, Paul noticed, wondering whether to point it out. He decided not to. ‘I’d like you to order something for me.’

‘Yes?’ Angela gazed up at him, her expression eager to please.

‘Well, when I say for me, I really mean for a friend of mine,’ he smirked, as Angela pressed her lips into a disapproving line. She knew what was coming – it wasn’t the first time he’d made this request.

‘I’d like you to order some lingerie. The recipient’s name is Sadie Laine and I’ll email you the address. Get something from Agent Provocateur. Something red and trashy.’ If Sadie was going to behave like a whore, he’d treat her like one.

‘What size?’ Angela’s pen hovered above her notepad.

Paul sat back in his ergonomic chair, brushed a piece of lint from his Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and looked her over appraisingly. Behind him the wide glass windows offered a stunning panoramic view over the City, the world’s financial hub where billions of dollars were traded every day by the rich and powerful. They were the Masters of the Universe. Men like Paul Austin were untouchable and they made their own rules.

‘I’m not sure exactly.’ He pretended to consider the issue. ‘She’s considerably thinner than you are – she works out, you see. You don’t go to the gym, do you Angela?’

Cheeks flaming, Angela shook her head. She made a mental note to join tomorrow.

‘I didn’t think so. She has a flat stomach, slim hips.’ His eyes trailed over Angela’s body, coming to rest on her chest. ‘And her breasts are larger than yours. Do you think you can work out the sizing from that, hmm? Just do your best, sweetheart.’

‘I will,’ Angela assured him. Her face was still flushed from the way his gaze had lingered on her breasts. She found herself wondering who his latest floozy was – where she lived, what she looked like. What she had that Angela didn’t …

Over the months that she had worked for him, Angela had seen a string of mistresses come and go, one after the next, all at the beck and call of Paul Austin. He didn’t seem to realize that Angela was waiting for him, ready to fulfil his every desire. No matter how hard she tried with her appearance – skirts getting shorter, outfits tighter and more revealing – he rarely paid her a second glance.

She knew she was a walking cliché, the wistful secretary in love with her boss, but she couldn’t help herself. She regularly found herself wondering what it would be like to be the wife of a man like Mr Austin. Angela had never been the pretty girl, the popular girl that all the boys wanted. When the women in the office went on a night out, Angela was never invited. She would see them in the toilets on Friday evenings, applying lip gloss and styling their hair, all chattering and laughing, and she longed to be part of that group. She knew that dating someone like Paul Austin would bring her instant status. If she was with him, they would have to be nice to her. They would have to treat her with respect.

Instead, Angela spent her Friday nights at home in her dingy studio flat, dreaming of the day when Mr Austin would finally notice her as something more than his über-efficient secretary. She would curl up in her lonely bed and let her hands slip down between her legs, wrapped up in the fantasy, imagining him striding masterfully across the office towards her and …

She realized she’d been staring at him. He was looking at her, an amused expression on his handsome face. ‘Is everything okay, Angela?’

‘Fine.’ She recovered herself. ‘Fine. Will there be anything else?’ she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

‘I think that’s everything.’ Angela turned to go but Paul stopped her. ‘Oh, have there been any messages for me?’

‘Yes.’ Angela checked her notepad and made a face. ‘Your wife called. She said not to forget that you’re having dinner with John and Melissa Van Nordstrom, and if you could try to get home early because the boys have been asking to see you.’

‘Thank you,’ Paul said smoothly, not displaying the slightest trace of conscience over having his PA juggle his wife and mistress.

If she was being honest with herself, Angela knew her boss could be a complete and utter shit. But that didn’t stop him being the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on. There was something magnetic about him, a confidence and charisma that drew women in. She knew he wasn’t happy with his wife – that was obviously the reason he had so many affairs. Angela could make him happy, she felt sure of it. All she needed was an opportunity.

‘One two three four, cross turn slam change. Good. And again …’

Sadie was sweating hard. She felt it trickle down her back, beading between her breasts as the dance teacher issued rapid staccato instructions, rattling them off like a machine gun. Behind his voice was the hard pounding of some underground R’n’B track, a relentless beat as the singer rapped over the top. It was turned up so loud that the windows vibrated.

She was at a hip-hop class at Danceworks, the dance studio just off Bond Street. Around her the young and gorgeous gyrated and grooved, all united in one purpose: to dance. Beside her was a sexy mixed-race guy with a shaved head and a tight white vest. His body was ripped, his muscles bulging; it was incredible to Sadie how such a big guy could move with such precision and swiftness. To her right, a girl with backcombed, dirty-blonde hair and grey jogging bottoms rolled up to her knees ran through the steps as if she’d been born doing them. Their moves were fast and sharp, their attitudes fierce. They revelled in the physicality, the sheer joy of movement.

Sadie was locked in concentration, trying to master the complicated routine. She knew she needed to just let loose and feel the moves, but she couldn’t seem to relax. It was over a month since she’d attended a dance class and her body was letting her down. In frustration, she swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the chilly day outside, the studio was baking and the large standing fans did little to cool it. Sadie had pulled her dark hair back into a tight ponytail, but strands were working loose as she danced, plastering themselves to her damp cheeks. She was wearing an ancient pair of baggy black drawstring pants and a loose white vest top. The laid-back clothes emphasized her long, lean limbs with their sinewy muscles. Her breasts were small and sharp through the thin cotton top, her stomach flat and toned. She looked like a dancer. She looked fantastic.

‘One and two and three and yeah, punch, punch, stop, roll …’

Jeez, this guy was relentless! But Sadie was determined to get it. She realized how long it was since she’d properly worked out. Moves that used to be easy, automatic, now took effort. And she tired quickly – her stamina was shot, and she was sweating like a man. But she couldn’t deny that the buzz was there. The adrenaline was pumping, the endorphins rushing through her body, giving her that sweet natural high that she craved. This was what she loved and she was excited to be back out there. She was up for the challenge, willing to do whatever it took to fulfil her ambitions.

To raise the stakes, Sadie imagined this wasn’t a class but a real performance. Gone were the grimy mirrored walls, the dusty floor and the pile of abandoned exercise mats in the corner. In her mind she was out there, live on stage in front of thousands of people with all eyes focused on her so she couldn’t mess up. She saw herself standing alone in the darkness with a single spotlight picking her out as she wowed the crowd. The thought unconsciously made her up her game – her movements became sharper, her head snapped up and her eyes came alive with that joyous sparkle that couldn’t be faked. Was this what Jenna Jonsson felt like, she wondered suddenly? Was this what she experienced every day, this rush from being watched, adored and idolized?

‘Okay, one final time, make it good people, give it everything …’

Sadie barely heard the teacher as he restarted the music. Her body was racing through the steps instinctively, her mind not stopping to think. This was blissful – she felt like she was flying. She was strong, sexy and powerful. She felt her body move, her hips grinding, pelvis rolling, ribs slinking from side to side. For a second she closed her eyes, imagining the adoring crowd below her, wowed by her every movement and in awe of her talent.

Then the fantasy changed and she imagined she was dancing for Paul. She visualized his face in the crowd as she put on the performance, his pale blue eyes trained on her intensely, that handsome face unable to tear his gaze away from her. He’d probably come in his pants right there, she thought with a grin. He’d love the way she was moving, all that rolling and grinding. She couldn’t wait to see him again. She’d barely stopped smiling since that afternoon in the May Fair. Maybe she’d do a private show for him next time. Yeah, persuade him to book a suite somewhere with its own pole …

‘And pow! Hold the final position … and finish! Okay, great class people.’

The group collapsed, exhausted but elated. Some clapped – a few even whooped. Then they quickly dispersed.

Sadie headed downstairs to the changing rooms. Her limbs were aching but she felt amazing. She showered quickly, dressing casually in skinny jeans, vest top and a cropped jacket with an oversized scarf from H&M wound several times round her neck. She pinned her damp hair up and applied a little Maybelline mascara. She didn’t bother with any other make-up. She didn’t need to – her skin was flawless and glowing, flushed pink from the exercise and the hot shower. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she headed back upstairs.

‘Bye Faye,’ she called out to the glamorous bleached blonde on reception.

‘Great to see you back again,’ Faye grinned, giving her a little wave.

Stepping outside, Sadie turned up towards Selfridges, wondering if she could afford to treat herself to a little something. Maybe a new lip gloss, or even a pair of shoes for her next date with Paul …

She felt her mobile vibrate in her bag, and her heart leapt. She hated to admit it, but her very first thought was that she hoped it was him. As she pulled it out, Sadie saw her agent’s name flashing on the caller display.

‘Hi Gill.’

‘Hi Sadie.’ Gill got straight down to business. ‘I’ve got you an audition for this afternoon. Three p.m. in Soho, can you make it?’

Sadie felt a jolt of excitement shoot through her stomach. Every audition was a chance to progress her career. Even if you didn’t get the job, there was always the opportunity to meet people and make new contacts. Who knew where it might lead?

‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘No problem. I’m in town at the moment and I’ve got my dance gear with me. What is it for?’

‘It’s a commercial,’ Gill explained. ‘For some new shampoo. You’re looking all down and miserable, then you use the shampoo and suddenly you’re up and dancing. The brief says elegant – you’re floating and twirling like a ballet dancer, not raving at the disco.’

‘Okay Gill, no problem.’

‘Excellent, I’ll text you the address. Have you picked up a copy of The Stage this week?’

‘Not yet …’

‘Get one. I’m not your skivvy, y’know – you’ve got to put some effort in too.’

‘Okay Gill, will do,’ Sadie smiled.

Gillian was always on the go, gabbling at a hundred miles an hour in that south London accent. She was a hustler, an ex-dancer who’d turned forty, divorced her husband and started her own agency. She tended to bark out details and Sadie kept her answers as short as possible.

‘Great. Speak to you later, hon.’ Gill hung up.

Swiftly, Sadie turned around, heading into the maze-like backstreets of Mayfair to find a newsagent. She had a spring in her step as she walked. Not only did she have a hot, sexy, loaded new guy, but her career was getting back on track as well. The hip-hop class had left her full of energy and boosted her confidence. She looked good and she knew it. She felt the familiar tingle of excitement and nerves at the prospect of an audition, but she was up for it, eager for the chance to get out there and prove herself. Yeah, Sadie Laine was back in the game and she was going to be more than just a contender – she wanted to be a serious player. With self-belief, hard work and a shed-load of talent, how could she possibly fail?

She found a newsagent and headed inside to pick up a copy of The Stage, but something else caught her attention. It was the headline on the front of every tabloid, and the accompanying photos of Jenna Jonsson and Ryan Jackson.

Well, well, well, thought Sadie, her mood brightening even more as she saw the battering her old rival was getting from the papers. Looks like both of us got laid last night.