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"Do you believe in female emancipation, Rebecca?" asked Mary. Becca tore her eyes away from the hypnotic swinging of Mary's nylon legs and switched her point of focus to Mary's flawless brow.
"Of course I do."
"And do you believe that women compete on a level playing field with men?"
"I think that it's possible to make a career if one is prepared to work hard," replied Becca. She inwardly cringed at the use of the cliché but felt relieved that the question had not been as personal as the previous.
"Balderdash!" Becca flinched at Mary's abrupt ejaculation. Mary continued. "Women may like to delude themselves that they can fairly compete with men but the painful reality is that the deck is firmly stacked against them. I'll not insult your intelligence by labouring the point, for any woman, despite her public denials, knows that it is still a man's world, run by men for the their mutual advancement."
"But we've had women MP's," Becca hastily sought the name of a female politician, "Barbara Castle."
"A bloody lefty token gesture! I think you answered your own question," grimaced Mary. "But men have one infallible weakness; can you guess what it is?"
Becca may have been suffused with nervous tension as the strange second interview progressed but her capacity for rational thought had not been stymied. She could intuitively sense by Mary's line of questioning where this was heading. "I think so...," announced Becca.
"Well?" encouraged Mary. Becca bit her bottom lip, reluctant to reveal her thoughts. Mary's stunning eyes fixed upon Becca, the intensity of the gaze designed to draw the hesitant words from Becca's lips.
"Sex...," stated Becca. Mary smiled and nodded approvingly before taking up the conversation.
"Indeed so, Miss Seehofer. Really smart men know this; they know their heads are ruled by their bollocks. But you know what? It never ceases to amaze, the number of men who are willingly undone by a pretty face. They can't help themselves; sex to the powerful man is like a light bulb to a moth."
"Why are you telling me this, Mrs Weaver?" Becca suddenly found the tensions of the morning slip from her shoulders. Mary's latest pronouncement seemed so far removed from the intimidating interrogation of the interview that she found herself temporarily removed from reality. It felt as if she was in her favourite bar with her girlfriends discussing the current gossip.
Mary Weaver jumped unexpectedly from her perch on the edge of the table and landed gracefully on the balls of her feet, the years of ballet training not going to waste. She walked briskly around the boardroom table, resumed her interview seat, and hastily scanned her notes. "I'm afraid to say that we will not be offering you the position, Miss Seehofer. Unfortunately, you have yet to develop the special attributes that we are looking for to fulfil the role."
Becca's mouth opened and she annoyingly realised her face had taken on a crestfallen demeanour. She knew the moment she had left the room that she would not be offered the position but the subsequent, strangely intimate discussion with Mary Weaver had somehow deflected Becca and lowered her protective guard so that the rebuttal, when it came, was painful as it was swift. Mary spoke again before Becca could offer her platitudes of resignation.
"However," continued Mary, "we recognise that you do possess certain attributes that may be pertinent to another role we are looking to fill." Becca's disappointment was instantly replaced by curiosity. Mary finally looked up from her notes having dispensed with the formal diatribe of the interview. "I will contact you later this week to arrange for a second interview in a venue that will be far more suitable for the role I have in mind." Mary looked enquiringly at Becca.
"What is the position you have in mind?" asked Becca.
"I think I'll let you muse upon that until the next interview, I would rather you came open minded and let our little chat work upon your mind and see what comes out of the melting pot."
CHAPTER 6 - THE SECOND INTERVIEW.
Tuesday, 22nd August 1967.
The Department for Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies.
Becca sat primly in Mary Weaver's office on the second floor, home to the department of Cultural, Artistic, and Technological Studies. Mary was assistant to Major Tom, the war traumatised head of the personnel department, and reposed behind her polished mahogany desk. She leant forward to depress the intercom button.
"Sally, would you please hold my calls until further notice, I'm conducting an interview," requested Mary.
"Okay, Mrs Weaver," replied Sally's voice through the speaker, neither Mary nor Becca able to observe the grin on Sally's plump face.
Becca dressed smart/casual as instructed for this second interview, wearing her pink ankle length slacks with blue canvas deck shoes and her horizontal striped French sailor's top. Her role model for today was Brigitte Bardot.
"You've lost weight, Rebecca," stated Mary, offering Becca a cigarette. Becca thought it prudent to refuse the offer. Mary took a cigarette; Becca thought that Mary even smoked with polished class. "I've seen photos of you when you were swimming; you swam for your country, did you not?"
"Yes, Mrs Weaver," answered Becca, declining to call her Mary. That was far too personal a proposition.
"You appeared bigger then, more hippy and booby," added Mary.
"Yes, I probably was, I lived well at Cambridge, since then I've had to, well... I've had to economise," stated Becca awkwardly.
"You've got to eat, girl," chided Mary. Becca preferred to spend what little spare cash she had left after her exorbitant London rent on cigarettes and booze.
Mary studied Becca whilst she smoked; Becca felt her own eyes nervously flicking around the room to avoid making eye contact. Finally, to break the loathsome silence Becca spoke up. "Why have you asked me back, Mrs Weaver?" Mary offered her inscrutable smile that Becca would come to know so well, slid open a drawer, and withdrew a glossy magazine, which she opened on an apparently random page and foisted before Becca.
Becca sat forward to study the magazine and was aghast at what she saw. It was a pornographic magazine, German, and certainly not a street-legal publication in the UK. One cursory glance was enough for Becca before she disdainfully shoved the magazine back towards Mary.
"What do think, Rebecca?" enquired Mary, eyeing Becca quizzically behind a veil of blue smoke.
"It's horrible, disgusting!" insisted Becca.
"Really? You'll be surprised at how this 'thing' has done the rounds. It's been around all the departments, until someone deemed it prudent to confiscate it. Many men seemed to find it rather stimulating. I hate to think how many times the poor thing has visited the bathroom." Becca when she assimilated Mary's inference.
"That's disgusting," blurted Becca.
"That's men, my darling. Sums them up rather neatly," grinned Mary cynically. "They would baulk if their girlfriends and wives were to pose like that German Fräulein, yet they are happy to relieve themselves courtesy of the magazine's contents. It is the hypocrisy of the male gender. It is this double standard that we exploit for the benefit of her Majesty's Government, to further British trade interests."
"I'm not sure I follow, Mrs Weaver?" confessed Becca.
"My section uses feminine guile to further our country's interests."
"How?" asked a frowning Becca. Mary liked the way Becca's small nose curled upwards with consternation.
"By satisfying that base need that rules a man's head."
"You mean sleep with them?" asked Becca, not truly believing what she was hearing.
"If that's what it takes. Not all men feel happy going all the way, they like the wining, dining, and titillation. Do you know, it is calculated that during the last fiscal year our department contributed five billion to the exchequer by direct intervention, more if you count indirects."
"You mean you use blackmail?" asked Becca scathingly.
"Heavens no! You can't blackmail the Americans and our allies. No, we do them a favour."
"A favour?"
"Yes...," said Mary, extinguishing her cigarette meticulously "'You scratch my back...'. You'll be amazed how many deals, hanging in the balance, have been swayed by offering the procurement delegation a good time."
"So you are offering me a job to sleep with men?" asked a bewildered Becca.
"And women...," smiled Mary disarmingly. "No, Becca, you don't have to sleep with anyone, but I think you would be an asset to the team. There is a secretarial vacancy with Mr Denford. You are a first class linguist. Do you type?"
"Badly," stated Becca, not really caring how she replied, for she knew the job was not for her.
"Shorthand?" asked Mary.
"No."
"Ah well, a girl of your intellect will soon pick that up. So what do you think?"
"Are you serious, Mrs Weaver?"
Mary leant back in her chair, her lips tightly sealed, her fingertips pressed together before her face. "The salary is..." Mary handed Becca a typed sheet of paper.
"Jesus...," breathed Becca, startled by the stated remuneration package. "What are 'plus extras'?"
"Oh, those are the best bits, Rebecca," declared Mary, knowing she now had Becca on the end of the line, though not necessarily landed. Some subtle rod work would be required for that, and she knew just the man with the rod for the job.
CHAPTER 7 - A RED MOONRISE.
Friday, 13th July 2012.
Mount Pleasant Cottage.
"So you never actually slept with men?" asked Sybil following Becca's disclosure concerning the second interview. Becca sipped her whisky, the wine consumed but still leaving her with a thirst.
"At first, no. Mary Weaver was considerate, 'softly, softly catchy monkey' and all that."
"At first, you say, so you did eventually?" pressed Sybil.
"The system was very fair," answered Becca in considered tones. "The 'extras' were linked to performance. At first, I was content to be taken for meals and giggle at the appropriate moment. Then I would look at Sally..."
"You mean Mrs Weaver's secretary, the one you first mentioned when you met the two Japanese dudes?"
"Glad to hear you were listening," praised Becca. "Yes, the very same. She was not, being generous, the most intelligent girl. However, she was a great actress and had a huge pair of tits on a small body. She had a flat twice the size of mine and dressed like a queen. I asked her one day how much she earned and was shocked when she told me. She laughed when she saw my face and said something like 'a girl like you could earn twice that in a year...' I finally saw Mary Weaver and told her I wanted to upgrade my role within the department, as it was euphemistically described."
"Let me get this right," interjected Sybil, "by day you were a secretary to this Denford bloke but took on extracurricular activities?"
"Succinctly put, darling," confirmed Becca. "As I said, Mary was most sympathetic to her girls. I told you how I lost my professional cherry with Sally and the two Orientals. My first mark as a lone operative was another Japanese gentleman; he had a thing about blondes. He took me for dinner and I went back to his flat. He had a blowjob and a quick shag and that was it. A nice small cock and it was all over in a flash, he was rather too excited. A huge export deal was signed shortly afterwards."
Sybil blushed. Sometimes the frankness of her grandmother's recent recollections were easy to listen to whilst she maintained, what she considered, a "journalistic detachment." However, occasionally Becca managed to hit home and reminded Sybil that it was her own flesh and blood talking.
Becca continued undeterred. "And things just escalated after that. The next guy I slept with was a Saudi. Handsome chap and very considerate. He kept asking me if I was okay. As usual, he was gone from the hotel room by the time I awoke. Often men are embarrassed by what they have done and can't face you in the cold light of day. That was the only time I ever felt like a whore."
"Why didn't you at other times?" asked Sybil bluntly, wondering how Becca would respond to what was literally an accusation.
"Because it was all so legit, so normal- 'all for Queen and Country'. I guess I could say anything and you probably wouldn't believe it, your mother certainly never did when that fat mouthed Sally let slip in front of her one day. Yet, that, as they say, is another story. I'll tell you the real reason why I felt okay with it."
Becca stood up, walked into the kitchen, picked up her cigarettes, and proceeded out into the garden. Night had fallen and the evening air shimmered as the ground released the warmth of the day. The scented flowers finally lived up to their name, relishing the respite from the heat, enriching the night air with a balm of scented bliss. An owl screeched somewhere out in the inky distance.
Sybil came in search of Becca and found her smoking and followed suit, both stood gazing at the red tinted moon as it broached the horizon, low in the sky.
"Why, Gran?" asked Sybil, wanting to know the justification for Becca's choice of lifestyle. Becca thought of feigning ignorance, requesting clarification of Sybil's question, and correcting her for calling her gran. Yet she relented from such predictable obduracy and answered.
"It's something I believe you would understand, unlike your mother. I am sentient to our shared similarities. I noticed the attribute and was a little shocked, I have to say. I always accredited my leanings as a result of my parents' deaths, not realising they existed before they died. I suppose the death of one's parents is pretty traumatic, blurring much of my emotional memories prior to the event."
"What feelings?" asked Sybil, worrying that she already knew where Becca was heading.
"I loved my job. I was bloody good at it. Do you know why? Because I loved sex. Oh, I don't mean I enjoyed it. I did of course, but not always. I didn't have to get off to enjoy it. It took me a long time to realise that I was actually no different to many of the marks I was dealing with. What they seldom appreciated was the power I held over them. A few of them got off when they thought they were abusing me, when actually it was the other way around. Their indulging in so-called excesses was my way of exploiting and manipulating them. The emotion they generated as they used me fed my insatiable need for fulfilment and in doing so gave me a feeling of incredible power, it was my liberation. The 1960's was not quite as swinging as they would have you believe. In many ways, women were enslaved by men as much as they had always been. Mary Weaver knew that. You know it as well, don't you, darling?"
Did anything Becca say make sense to Sybil? Perhaps, but the double generation gap had conceivably made Sybil less consciously concerned regarding her own sexual proclivity. She could see nothing particularly wrong with having sex when one wanted or needed it. Maybe her ravenous libido did not feel so odd in the new century?
Some of her girlfriends shared a similar philosophy, though perhaps lacked her own predatory instincts. Some girls remained chaste; it was their choice, something with which they felt comfortable and proud of. However, what the hell, as long as you took precautions and it was consensual, so what? What, after all, was a normal and acceptable level of desire? Who was to say what was normal anymore? It felt like everyman for himself in the modern world. Becca patently came from a different time, which as she stated, in reality was perhaps not quite a swinging as history had painted.
"So what was the most outrageous thing you ever did, Becca?" asked Sybil.
"Outrageous? Hard to say. But I remember the night I took four Americans."
"Four!" ejaculated Sybil. "Jesus! That must have been some night! How on earth did you cater for four men?"
Becca gave a throaty laugh. 'Cater for', what a pleasant euphemism. "It certainly was a night to remember, it was the evening I met your grandfather."
It was almost as if someone had produced a cinematically enhanced effect. The bushes in front of Sybil appeared to retreat into the distance by some rapid alteration in the optical depth of field. Her head seemed to implode as the great unmentionable was broached.
"But no one knows who my granddad was. Mum always said you didn't know," whispered Sybil.
"Don't be ridiculous, girl. Of course I knew who the father of my only child was. I just chose not to tell your mother."
"Why?" exclaimed Sybil, desperate to discover more about the elusive figure.
"Because he died before she was born. Because I thought I might meet someone else and did not want to confuse her."
To be fair, Sybil selfishly had little concern for her mother's feelings; she needed to know who this awoken ghost was. "He died before she was born," reiterated Sybil. "How?"
"In Vietnam."
"How?"
"How? How do you think, it was a bloody war..." Becca stared at the distant moon momentarily lost in the moment of her confession.
"Yea, but how exactly?" Sybil was neither hurt or deflected by Becca's put down.
"Officially I was never told, but a friend did make enquiries. He died in a punji trap."
"What?"
"A camouflaged pit with sharpened bamboo spikes in the bottom called punji sticks. Apparently, he got careless and fell in one..."
CHAPTER 8 - BUNNY BEDFORD.
Friday, 22nd August 1970.
Seehofer Apartment, London.
Fay 'Bunny' Bedford brushed Becca's hair with sweeping, tender strokes, the synthetic bristles finding a satisfying degree of resistance as it groomed the rich, glossy hair indicating to the professional stylist that Becca's hair was in good health. It was Bunny who had decided that Becca should wear her hair down, pinned back to show her small ears, allowing it to cascade over her shoulders.
Bunny glanced in the dressing table mirror to check on Becca's make-up. Her model had her eyes closed, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of having her hair brushed. Bunny had similarly selected the style of make-up that Becca should wear for her evening with Lawson Hackett, finally settling on the classy but demure look of a girl who wanted to impress but who didn't want to look overtly sexual or intimidating, as she knew the loathsome Hackett favoured. Bunny nodded with the contentment of having achieved her aspiration.
As she continued to sweep the brush through Becca's accommodating hair, she allowed her eyes to gaze lower down the reflected image before her, her eyes drawn as ever to Becca's breasts. Bunny insisted that Becca had her make-up applied topless, in her ideal world, every inch of Rebecca Seehofer would be naked, but topless was the usual compromise. Bunny justified her desire professionally by her insistence that make-up may spoil Becca's clothes. She realised that Becca saw through the ruse and condescended to expose herself for her old school chum and flatmate's indulgence.
Bunny, at thirty years of age, was only five years older than Becca but in reality, the few years represented a chasm of experience and expectation. Bunny had been head girl at the exclusive all-girls school when Rebecca Seehofer was the young, impressionable, and vulnerable new border whose parents' had recently died. Bunny, head girl and captain of the hockey team, had been charged with Becca's integration into the school.
Even then, Bunny was diligent in her appointed task and went about her induction duties with remarkable enthusiasm, as was noted in her school report by the headmistress. Becca was a frightened and naive new arrival, and submissively compliant to Bunny's ministrations. How was Becca, recently arrived from Germany and traumatised by her parents' premature death, to know that it was customary for a new girl to be 'shown the ropes' by the more experienced student? Bunny would tenderly protect Becca from predatory girls although the youngster was never inclined to reciprocate the adoration bestowed upon her. Becca nevertheless became accustomed to the comforting hugs of the older girl and grew to accept and depend upon Bunny's role as 'big sister'.
