Flickering light was all Shelley could make out from under the blindfold. Her ability to balance was compromised by her inability to view her surroundings. Her body jolted around on the backseat and she wondered how much longer she could tolerate the motion before surrendering to nausea. She wanted to ask how much time it would take until they arrived. But she didn’t, imagining she’d sound like a whinging child.
The car stopped abruptly, lunging Shelley’s body forward. Her head smashed on something hard. She knew not to remove the blindfold, so she brushed the back of her hand across her throbbing forehead. She didn’t feel any blood.
She heard a car door open, then slam shut. Another door opened. It sounded very close, perhaps the back door of the car. Was that leather she felt wrapped around her arm?
“Sorry about that, miss. Are you all right?” The hand that gripped her hoisted her back onto the seat.
“My head hurts. Is it bleeding?”
The leather glove stroked Shelley’s hair away from her forehead. “No, miss. But you’ve got a little bump, or did you have that already?”
“No... No, I didn’t. Does it look bad?”
Leather-clad fingers ran through Shelley’s hair, brushing it forward to fall over her face. “Cover it with your hair, miss. He won’t notice.”
With Shelley returned upright on the backseat, the driver drove on. She berated herself for not asking how much longer they’d be. She’d had the opportunity of conversation and she’d squandered it.
Wearing the blindfold impeded her ability to judge time. In what seemed like half an hour, but may have been much more or far less, the car sharply pulled to the right. It came to a standstill and she heard a door open and bang shut.
Sometime later, something cold was placed in her hands: a plastic bag with little balls inside, tiny little balls.
“Put that on the bump, miss. Might stop it bruising.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Once again, the car was moving, and again Shelley didn’t feel like it was purely a forward motion. Swaying from side to side, and forward and back, she struggled to keep what she imagined was a bag of frozen peas pressed to her head.
The thought of arriving blemished was a worry. She already had plasters adhered to her two existing flaws and stories she’d concocted to explain them. For the lump on the inside of her elbow, a rogue phlebotomist was responsible during her altruistic act of giving blood. The breaking in of new boots had caused the lump on her foot. Uncomfortable shoes had a lot to answer for. Though generally blisters and corns, not lumps – with the exception of bunions – but a man wouldn’t know that, she presumed.
She repeated the stories in her head over and over as if she was convincing herself. If she could make herself believe it, then it would sound like the truth when she came to say it.
She heard grinding, as though the tyres were going over gravel. The sound continued. She could tell the car was going slowly. Her body rocked in all directions, but the movements were gentle.
The car rolled to a halt. She heard a door open, then slam. There was a creaking sound close by – the back door opening perhaps. She was right. The leather hand took Shelley’s and gently pulled her upwards and forwards.
“Mind the step here, miss.”
Shelley tripped on something and fell into a pair of arms. Strong arms, she felt, as they elevated her to a standing position.
“Hold on to me. It’s a bit of a way to the house.” The leather glove took her hand and wrapped it around the firm arm.
It sounded like stones were crunching and scraping under their feet. And that’s how it felt. To avoid damaging the heels of her expensive stilettos, she tiptoed.
“There’s steps coming up... Watch it, here’s the first.”
Shelley counted four steps before her guide stopped. Standing still in the blackness, she heard what sounded like a church bell ring. A door must have opened; it sounded like a door. Her guide told her to mind the step. She lifted one leg, carefully placed her foot on the floor then raised the leg behind her. After a couple of steps on what felt like carpet, there was a thud – most likely the door closing. The blindfold was removed and finally, she could see.
She was in the middle of a gigantic hall, lavishly decorated, and with a ceiling the height of two floors or more. To her right was a mahogany staircase. She looked up and saw a dark-haired man, in a burgundy smoking jacket, strutting down the stairs towards her.
“I’m terribly sorry about all that palaver with the blindfold. My lawyer insists on it. We’ve had some dastardly girls recently. Despicable behaviour.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“That is terrible.” Shelley was blinking, still adjusting to the recent exposure to light. “I’m not like that,” she said, patting her collarbone, checking the diamond in her Tiffany necklace was lying centrally.
“I know you’re not, sweetie. Marianne assured me.” He stroked her hair. “I have a penchant for blondes, but I think they’re more deadly. It’s always the blondes getting me into trouble. Last time it cost a small fortune, so I have to err on the side of caution. You understand, don’t you?” He tilted her chin upwards, looking into her eyes.
“Yes, of course,” she said sweetly. Before he released her chin, she took a mental photograph of his face. Following him through the hall, she tried to place him. She assumed he must be someone famous: a celebrity, aristocracy or perhaps a politician. She didn’t recognise him. The location of the house must be what gave him away, otherwise what would be the point of the blindfold? Those dastardly hookers must have known who he was in order to blackmail him or sell a story to the papers, or whatever it was they’d done.
Even if she had recognised him, she would never do that. The Golden Rule – to do unto others as she would have done unto herself – was one she tried to live by, as much as she could in her line of work. She’d had several famous clients, though more often than not, they’d had to inform her who they were – in particular the footballers and the lawmakers. Their names as well as their faces were equally unknown to Shelley.
The more-handsome-than-usual client led her into a reception room. The gold-framed portraits hanging on the walls gave him away as a descendant of old money.
“I believe the best place to start is with a drink. So, tell me, Kiki, what’s your tipple?” His voice sounded like it had been in the family for as many generations as their wealth.
“Can I have a gin and tonic, please?” she replied, taking a seat on one of the two huge sofas.
He passed her a glass and sat down beside her. From underneath the table in front of them, he pulled out a gilded wall mirror. On the mirror sat a mountain of cocaine, a credit card and a rolled up fifty-pound note.
He took the card and swept some of the white powder away from the rest of the mountain. He milled it down to a finer consistency. Then he ran the card down the length of the mirror eight times, generating eight lengthy lines.
The late-thirties, or perhaps early-forties, male passed her the rolled up fifty. She bent over the mirror and, pressing one nostril down, she inhaled half a line up her other nostril. She handed the note back to him.
“Have some more, sweetie.” He nodded his head in the direction of the mirror.
She leant over and finished the line she’d started. As she went to hand the note back, he nodded again, indicating she hadn’t finished her turn. Snorting steadily, she succeeded in inhaling a whole line with her one strategically regulated sniff.
She slipped off her stilettos and lay back on the azure sofa. “That’s enough for now,” she said, passing the fifty to her client.