Night Angels Ch. 3

Staff meetings were never my strong point. Staff meetings on Monday mornings drove me to distraction. A staff meeting on a Monday morning, watching the woman I fucked on Friday night pretend to ignore me while she flashed her thighs at me under the boardroom table was a special form of torture.

It was going to be a long week.

I was not in very good nick to begin with. I had spent the weekend in a state of complete distraction. Images of my night at the Republic of Desire loomed up in front of me: the leather-harnessed girls, the ritual auction, Lucy’s passion, Selma’s cryptic remarks… and Lucy’s husky, suddenly vulnerable voice bidding me Till Monday in the street.

I could not concentrate on anything. Ages ago, one of my first girlfriends had told me that when a couple had sex, pheromones were exchanged between them, keying them in to one another’s chemistry, binding them to one another. It was the chemical basis for falling in love, she said, and it accounted for that disorienting, disarming stage after a first sexual encounter when your mind is constantly filled with images and memories of the other person. It sounded a bit simplistic to me. But chemical or not, Lucy had managed to get past my defences.

Nothing could hold my attention. My weekend rituals – shopping and cleaning on Saturday morning, a slow breakfast, a walk and music on Sunday – were in pieces. Mr Thelonious (that’s my cat, an aging, portly and very dignified chocolate brown Burmese) had been entirely displeased. Instead of sitting on the couch listening to music or watching old movies like I was supposed to, I had wandered aimlessly around the apartment, adjusting objects here and there, pacing the carpet, stopping suddenly to gaze out at the river, picking up the telephone and putting it down. I had even forgotten to brush him – an unpardonable offence. That same girlfriend had always said that cats don’t have owners, they have staff. Mr Thelonious was a case in point, and he was deeply disappointed in me. He had sat sulkily on the windowsill that Monday morning, barely suffering his ears to be tickled and evidently feeling that I was lucky he was not implementing major retrenchments.

Some of my feelings were of elation, and revelling in the fact that this strange and bewitching woman apparently wanted me. Some were of embarrassment and self consciousness – here I was, a man just into my forties, carrying on like a seventeen-year old in love with a pretty girl in her twenties. And some was confusion and fear. What was going to happen now? It was not as if this affair, or whatever it was, could fit into life at work. Things between Legal and Research were pretty strained already. I could only imagine the incendiary effect on office politics of dalliance between the middle-aged and rather controversial Director of Research and Charles Gaunt’s newest PA. Incendiary! Dalliance! Those were just the words Charles would use. I could already hear him sounding forth.

And then there was the matter of the other woman. Office rumours to the contrary, I could now conclusively say Lucy was not lesbian. But she could still be bisexual – and what was her relationship to the pretty Asian girl whose picture sat on her desk, and who dropped her off with a kiss outside the office every weekday morning? Liu Mi, I recalled her name had been. Were they an item? And if they were, what was I? Just a game? An experiment? A betrayal?

To make matters worse, the intensity of pressure at work seemed about to redouble. The Soft Information Co had managed to get its hooks into one of the biggest and most important contracts in its existence, and we were going to have to pull out all the stops to bring it off. Monday morning was really a council of war. The whole office was excited, and more than a bit uptight. Everyone had ants in their pants. I hid it well, but I was the worst off. Before the meeting, Lucy was nowhere to be seen. I had not been able to concentrate on my preparations. Every time someone walked past the copy room I had spun around expectantly. What was it going to be? The cold shoulder? More of the elaborate pretence of nonchalance? Or what?

The meeting had just started when the answer became clear. It was - Or What.

Lucy made her entrance five minutes late. People had just settled in, mugs of coffee positioned, piles of papers shuffled. Dear old Charles was in mid-pontification when she walked in. Everyone stopped listening. I have not seen many women make all the heads in a room, male and female, swivel simultaneously, but she did it.

She looked stunning.

Now , she was not dressed particularly seductively. As sexy-smart office wear goes, this was nothing out of the ordinary. Just an elegantly cut - even slightly severe – charcoal mini-dress and jacket assembly, ending just a tad above the knee. I have seen many young secretaries and temps show more flesh and not raise an eyebrow.

But you see, they had not been Lucy. And that made all the difference.

For one thing, no-one (except me, that is) had seen Lucy in anything but the plainest of clothes. Not that she dressed boringly. She’d just had very quiet taste. No dresses. Black chinos and brown knitted sweater, nicely finished, clearly expensive, but definitely not eye-catching - that was her office style. Blend-into-the-background stuff.

This was surge-into-the-foreground stuff. This was hey-baby-look-at-me stuff.

And we did.

For, and this was the second thing, the secret was out. She was a stunner. She was a beauty. Not a babe - babes don’t come industrial strength. She was the real thing. She had the supermodel cool. The glamour. She was gorgeous. She was dangerous. She was a goddess. She was a witch. And she knew it.

Under the circs, I was one of the few who managed not to stare. Charles, who is never a good noticer at the best of times, continued talking for a sentence or two more before he ran out of gas. All the other directors goggled. The only ones besides me who did not appear nonplussed was Vanessa (who noticeably brightened), Peter, the big boss, who is never ruffled by anything and Andrew Sexton, our rather geekish head of Strategy and co-founder of the company, who only seemed pleased because the meeting could now finally start.

Lucy pretended not to notice and swept smoothly up to her place next to Charles, who was still gawking. For a second it crossed my mind that he had not recognised her. The same idea appeared to strike Lucy, for she smiled cheerily and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you - Lucy Temple,” she said. In the resulting gust of laughter she sat down and opened the waiting notebook computer. Charles’ nose was noticeably out of joint but for once he was silent.

“Hi Lucy. Welcome. You look nice this morning.” This was Andrew.

“Sorry I’m late. Thank you.” She said briskly, starting to distribute neatly bound files from her smart little black briefcase. She paused and looked up, seeming to notice everyone’s admiring stares. “Well, this is the big time, isn’t it? No more kid stuff… We’re playing for real stakes now,” she said, looking directly in my eyes.

Indeed we were. It was the end of an era. No more safety for John Gray, I thought, feeling strangely calm and elated. All was on the hazard. The company, my career, and with my carefully won sense of stability. I had known for some time that the next few months at Soft Info was crucial. It was the test of my reputation and my position in the company. And now Lucy was in the works. A wild card if ever there was one. Who knew what would happen? I should have been scared, but what I felt at that moment was mostly a strange relief.

The staff meeting was one of those exhausting, nerve wracking battles where everything is happening at more than one level at the same time. On the surface, the appearance of consensus. Lots of talk of win-win, synergy, all that guff. Underneath, hostility, rage, positioning, sabotage. And the chief saboteur was Charles. His agenda was completely opposite to mine. What he wanted from this deal was safety. A relationship with a blue chip company. A long relationship. Respectability. Stock options. What I wanted – and I knew Andrew wanted it too – was edge. We are not a safe company. We deal in information. Market research of a very specialised kind, in very specialised niches. Not spying at all, though I do keep my ear on the ground. What had made us special was our independence. We had a reputation for giving controversial advice, making counterintuitive judgements, emphasising apparently irrelevant developments – and then turning out to be infuriatingly right. And Charles was often one of those who were infuriated. He hated controversy. He saw it has his mission to prevent us from being sued for defamation. He was terrified we would piss off someone important. When we started quietly advising people not to trust the integrity of a major global consultancy and auditing firm (no names needed, you know the one), Charles permanently went shade greyer – and when we turned out to be right, a shade more purple as well. He made it his business to object to everything I did, and squirted inky clouds of warnings and advisories around each of my projects. This meeting was no exception.

Lucy sat serene like a sphinx, tapping away at her notebook computer, her distracting long legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. Charles nattered away interminably, apparently unaware that the brief his assistant had handed out seemed to contradict several of his key points. I caught her eye. No response. Then her left hand crept under the table and she hiked that skirt up just one more centimetre. I tried not to focus on her creamy thighs. Pale, barely protected by the black fabric of her dress. I remembered the warmth of them against my ears, the sense of toned, living muscle beneath the skin, the delicate trembling of the tendons of her inner thighs, her beautiful, silky-hot cunt. I felt my loins stirring uncomfortably, and realised that there was no way I could adjust myself without everybody noticing. Except possibly Charles.

Oh fuck. I desperately looked at the paper in front of me, tried to focus my mind on something else. Lucy’s notes. Nearly and precisely listing the real issues, the strategic issues, not those her boss was raising. She was my ally. She was my girl. Her breasts had been soft against my skin. And she liked to have them licked and tickled. Kissing her pussy was like eating a mango, you got juice all down your chin. Stop that!

I tried to focus on what Charles was saying. Long-term relationship. Win-win. Security. Brands. Lexus-and-Olive-Tree nonsense. None of that mattered. What mattered in this deal was what happened with the information. Who controlled it. Who shared what. Who produced it. Who made the judgements. And how it could lead to more information. For information is like quicksilver. Elusive, liquid, reflective. And just like a little drop of mercury would absorb other smaller drops, information attracted information. It had its own gravity and life. What this deal allowed us was to get really close to huge masses of really complex information, and make it mix and tangle with ours. I saw it in my minds eye, like a galaxy forming out of cosmic dust. Dead, cold, inert facts, colliding with one another, forming a bigger and bigger mass that slowly warmed up, until the little glimmers of light appeared…

My mobile phone silently vibrated against my leg. Charles was still in full throat. I fished it out of my pocket. I had a text message. Anything to distract my attention.

It was some kind of spam, it seemed. Sent from an anonymous mail server somewhere, complete with those irritating little pictograms they seem to think we want to send each other these days. I looked at it anyway. It did not make sense. Do you want your… and then couple of small icons – a picture of a smiley sun, a drop of water, a bunch of grapes. Whatever did that mean?

The only association that came to my mind was that of a local take-away fast health food chain. They had had that exact logo – the sun, the drop and the grapes. Delicious, healthy, take-away food. They had tanked. No market. People wanted their fast food unhealthy. What had they been called? Juicy Lucy. That had been their slogan. Do you want your … I switched off my phone.

My Juicy Lucy was studiously taking notes, her face a picture of innocence. The hemline crept a centimetre higher. I looked away in confusion. Straight at Vanessa, who was watching me with sparkling eyes. She seemed to be loving the show. Oh God.

It was unbearable. I do not know how I got through that meeting. I think what saved me was Charles’s sheer irritatingness and stupidity. I had to start thinking about how to deal with his objections, and slowly, point by point, bit by bit, managed to beat back the tides of mediocrity. At last, with lunch in sight, the battle seemed to be won. We would go ahead with the deal. We would not appoint more staff – we wanted to stay small, and the client could take on the extra clerks and data capturers. We’d do the analysis, we’d put in the distribution software, and we would insist on the right to publish our own independent views of our client’s position in the marketplace. No buddy buddy stuff. The edge. If they wanted anything different, they could have gone to one of our competitors, and they hadn’t. The final negotiations would be on Thursday and Friday, the signing would happen on Monday. The key team – myself, Andrew, Charles (and his suddenly stunning PA) would have to fly up north to our client’s head office to clinch the deal. Consensus was reached. Charles was quiet. School was out.

Somehow I managed to get out of the boardroom, my briefcase carefully positioned in front of my crotch. My raging erection seemed to be refusing to go away. To the loo. I was not going to jerk off in the staff toilets – I had my principles - but perhaps relieving the pressure on my bladder might help.

I stood for a while longer than I really needed in the bathroom. I wanted to rest my forehead against the cool tiles. My erection was still there. I tried to stay with my breath, like my meditation teacher had advised me to. It is like that game you play when you are a kid – try NOT thinking about pink tigers. About the smell of sweat on her skin. About the taste of her tongue. About … but slowly I managed it. Zipped myself up. Washed my hands. Just keep focussed. Stay centred. One thing at a time.

She came in while I was drying my hands. I saw her in the mirror. Striding in like one of the big cats, a smooth, white skinned, black-clothed panther with hot black eyes. I wheeled to face her. Wanted to say something. But tongue was already in my mouth. Her left hand behind my neck. Her body pressed up close against mine. This was insane, I thought, I should push her away and get out. Instead, I returned her kiss, pressed her hard against me. I could feel the taut muscles of the small of her back, the heat of her skin through the fabric of her shirt. Her soft breasts against my chest. I slid my other hand under her skirt. The door rattled. Someone was coming.

I froze in a panic. Lucy vanished, swiftly and silently, into one of the cubicles. Closed the door. I desperately tried to collect myself.

“You all right, old chap?” It was Andrew. He came bustling in, laden with files, dumped them by the basins, and went over for a piss. Andrew came on like a terminal nerd - and he was one, a bit – but he was sharp as nails and his vague bespectacled eyes did not miss a thing.

“I am fine,” I said. “I may be a bit worn out but I’ll be OK.” How much had he seen?

“Tell me, John,” said Andrew from his place at the pissoir, “What are your thoughts about Lucy?”

“Sorry?”

“Lucy. That nice-looking girl. I’ve had my eye on her for a while.” This was even more confusing. Andrew was happily married, and his idea of locker room talk was discussing the latest trends in intellectual property. (Andrew was fervently opposed to the idea of intellectual property, and watched the big pharmaceuticals with the venom of Paisley watching the Pope).

“Can’t say the same here. What do you mean? “

“She doesn’t fit in Legal. Can see it a mile away. Wasted on Charles. Good having her there – mole, you know - but it’s bound to come to a head somewhere. I’ve been having a chat with Peter.” Peter and Andrew had been friends for years, and they were forever having chats. They probably called each other at three AM, before going to sleep after a quickie with the wife. If Peter and Andrew agreed with each other, the matter was decided. “He agrees with me. I was wondering whether you’d like to have her.”

I was wordless. Behind Andrew, through the gap below the door, I could see Lucy’s slim ankles. One disappeared – she seemed to be getting ready to stand on the toilet lid to avoid detection – and then the other. Sure as hell I wanted to have her. But not in the sense Andrew meant. And I was not sure whether working with her would be a possibility. Too much of a good thing.

“Peter does not think you working with her is a possibility. Too much of a good thing, you see,” Andrew went on blithely. “Your, er, minds work in the same way. You click. Which is great. But strategically, you see, strategically…” - Strategically was almost a sacred word with Andrew - “strategically it would be better if you two could work together from different places. And I think her head is right for it. Strategy, you know. I need an extra brain, you know, in my section. It would make your position stronger. And mine. And we need to hold on to her you know. She’s a girl in a million. And I know you like her. Been seeing it for a while. You take care now John. “ He gathered up his files. “This is the big game. Real stakes, like she said. I really hope all goes all right for you.” He fixed me with a penetrating, enigmatic stare. “Come with me to lunch. I want to discuss these negotiations.” And I had the distinct sensation he was escorting me out, making sure he did not leave me behind in the toilets…
* * *

And so it went. Lucy had always loved teasing, and now she became more and more outrageous with every day. On Tuesday, after yet another meeting, I lingered for a second, leaning against a boardroom table and taking a call. Lucy came in and started stroking me through my pants, pouting at me like a Thirties starlet while I struggled to sound composed and tried to figure out how to end my call without upsetting my caller. One of the receptionists almost walked in on us, and once again I had to hide my crotch – it seemed to be the John Gray pose these days: briefcase or file holder ineptly clutched to the front of my pants. In my haste the files slid out of their container and papers spilled out all over the show. Lucy and the receptionist knelt down in front of me and gathered up the papers, Lucy with her legs provocatively splayed, grinning to herself like cat that got the cream.

On Wednesday I was in my office, in a meeting with Angus, one of the more staid middle managers, talking through the issues that would come up next week. A messenger came in with a big interoffice envelope. Still listening to Angus, I opened it and felt around inside it. Cloth. Thin, satiny cloth. Damp. Warm damp. I had almost hauled it out before I realised what it was. I almost dropped the envelope like it was hot, and hurriedly shoved it out of sight next to my computer. I had completely lost track what Angus was talking about. He did not seem to have noticed anything. How could he not? It was evident: the unmistakable scent of pussy juice. To my fevered mind it seemed to fill the whole office, dense and heady like jasmine flowers.

What would come next? If it was like this on an ordinary day at the office, what would it be like on the plane, and when we were all cooped up in our hotel?