Club Crème Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Primula Bond

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Copyright

  About the Book

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t spend longer with you, Sir Simeon, but tonight is our first school dinners night. That’s why the club is full to bursting. I have to go to put the finishing touches to our menu.’

  He stood up straightened his tie. ‘And what’s on the menu, apart from the staff?’

  ‘That’s easy, sir. It’s toad in the hole.’

  Spirited young traveller Suki Summers becomes a housekeeper for an exclusive gentlemen’s club in London. Club Creme has been founded by the debonair Sir Simeon for chaps who want an elegant retreat where they can relax and indulge their taste for old-fashioned frolics. Her first impression is that the place is very stuffy, but it isn’t long before she realises that anything goes – as long as it is behind closed doors where she is required to either keep watch or join in. Suki soon becomes very popular – with enigmatic secretary Miss Sugar and with Sir Simeon himself. But when she has a close encounter with Sir Simeon’s son and the hunting set at the family’s country seat, she has to decide where her sexual loyalties really lie.

  Naughty young things and saucy older gentlemen enjoy a giddy whirl of riotous parties and divine decadence.

  About the Author

  Primula Bond has written a number of titles for Black Lace, including Country Pleasures and Club Crème, as well as Behind the Curtain for Nexus.

  Also by Primula Bond

  Country Pleasures

  Club Crème

  Primula Bond

  1

  There was bubblegum stuck to my shoe. Every other step I took along the grubby pavement was accompanied by stickiness, as if my foot didn’t want me to get there. I stopped and leaned against the window of a classy lingerie shop where a headless mannequin in a tightly laced scarlet corset was banging at the window to get out. I frantically scraped the sole of my borrowed, uncomfortable shoe against the sharp edge of the doorstep to get rid of the gum, and wondered how that corset would look worn on its own, with a spiked dog-collar, black leather pencil skirt, bare legs and skyscraper heels.

  I earned a glare from the fat lady inside the shop, cerise lips and furrowed brow demanding silently to know if I was coming in to buy. I shook my head and waggled my foot about some more, scraped and kicked, but the gum was still there when I set off again.

  I didn’t have time to get rid of it. I was late, as usual, and the office was proving impossible to find. I crumpled the newspaper ad into a ball in my pocket as I limped unevenly through Mayfair. I’d forgotten how smart and hushed this part of London was compared to how stressful the city could be; one would always be rushing past even smarter and even more stressed people to get to appointments. Despite the cold weather, sweat was prickling in my armpits as I glanced at all the doorways, some of which had no numbering on them at all.

  More than half of me wanted to turn tail and flee. I didn’t want a poxy job, here or anywhere else. I wanted to continue living the life of Riley, preferably under permanently blue skies. Whoever Riley was, I wanted to meet him; I wanted him to get me out of this mess. I wanted to forget that I’d run out of money, clothes and a proper working visa, and had nowhere to come but home.

  I was rushing past an estate agents’ with huge glossy photographs of stately homes in the window, when the name I was searching for flickered out like a tentacle. ‘Club Crème’ was inscribed in plain black lettering on a neat wooden sign nailed to a little gate. Apart from the luscious name, it could have been an undertakers’. If I’d blinked I’d have missed it.

  I came to a halt and the offending shoe flew off. No wonder. Chrissie was several inches shorter and skinnier than me. Her shoes, and the pinstripe trouser suit I had also borrowed, were miles too small. At 28 I was far too young for middle-age spread. Goddam it, I thought I was in pretty good shape. But, trussed up in her miniscule clothes my ribs and toes already felt squashed and bruised, as if they’d done a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. But I couldn’t wear my usual casual clothes to a posh interview, could I? And I needed this job. Any job.

  I pushed at the gate and it grudgingly opened with a couple of horror-movie squeaks. I walked up a narrow dark alleyway, all dripping brickwork and distant echoes, and saw a black painted double door ahead. ‘Club Crème’ was inscribed above this door, too. I pushed, but it was locked. One bell, no label. I rang this and waited. I rang it again, and took out the scrumpled piece of newspaper from my pocket. For the umpteenth time I read its enigmatic request:

  Versatile, energetic and discreet person required

  for varied duties

  Private Gentlemens’ Club

  Yep, that was me.

  2

  ‘How do you know that’s you?’ Chrissie had snorted the night before, when I read it out to her from the Situations Vacant column, tucked alongside the adverts for cheap flights all over the world, which is what I was saving up for. ‘It sounds like an old people’s home.’

  ‘Either that, or a massage parlour.’ I was already regretting telling her.

  ‘Could be. It’s near Shepherd Market, after all. That area used to be a hookers’ haunt, you know. Maybe it still is. But with a name like Club Crème, this place could just as easily be a cookery school. But you can’t cook, Suki. You can barely type, you’ve been sacked from virtually every job you’ve ever had, you’ve spent the last year doing what, lolling around in the sunshine being bankrolled by some rich prince –’

  ‘He wasn’t really a prince, but we all called him that because he looked and acted like one. And I wasn’t lolling around all the time. I was helping train his string of horses.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.’ Chrissie had a great line in barbed comments. ‘I suppose that was a step up from modelling trainers in Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘And swimwear,’ I protested. ‘They did take pictures of more than just my feet, though it took a lot of persuading, and I wouldn’t let them shoot above the shoulders.’

  ‘I don’t know why not. It’s not such a bad face, when you’re scrubbed up, and you’d have made more money that way. Honestly, girl. The only job you haven’t been sacked from,’ Chrissie went on sternly, ‘was mucking out stables at that Lord Whatsit’s stately home.’

  ‘And there’s a very good reason why I wasn’t sacked,’ I said preening myself at the memory.

  ‘Why? Shagging the boss, were you? Really, Suki . . .’

  ‘They begged me to stay. I was the best they’d ever had, actually. And you can take that how you like. So there you are!’ I interrupted her triumphantly. ‘If that catalogue of achievement doesn’t make me a versatile person, then I don’t know what does.’

  ‘You might call it versatile. I call it unreliable.’

  We faced each other over our wine glasses. We were sitting out on her roof terrace, even though it was a cool autumn evening. A plane lifted heavily into the London sky and, as always, I craned my neck to imagine where it was going, who was on board, how hot it would be when they got there . . .

  ‘How about being an air hostess?’ I ventured. ‘Or flight attendant, as it’s called now
. That’s something I’ve never tried.’ I took a deep slug of wine and wandered across the terrace to peer over the little parapet at the world below. A tube train rumbled out of Earls Court station below us, making the house shake.

  ‘You don’t look the part,’ Chrissie said as she tilted her head to examine me. ‘You’d never fit the bill. Admittedly, I can’t remember what colour your hair is naturally –’

  ‘Mouse, I think they call it –’

  ‘But it never used to be so red or so long. No use hiding it under that beret. You look like an onion seller in that tatty T-shirt and torn jeans. You’re not on the continent now, you know –’

  ‘Oh, God, Chrissie, I wish I was. I wish I could get this travel bug out of my system,’ I sighed, breathing in the city fumes. Then I wagged my finger at her. ‘You should have visited me out there. Why didn’t you?’

  Chrissie pursed her lips, and I wanted to kick her. If I resembled an onion seller, she looked like a Dresden shepherdess: little legs crossed, blonde curls tightly arranged over her small head, perfect fingernails curled round her wine glass – in fact, she would make a perfect flight attendant. But the perfume business seemed to suit her. She liked smothering her naturally wicked little face with heavy pink foundation, accentuating her blue eyes with sparkly shadow until she looked innocent, hiding the sharp teeth and sharper tongue under perfectly applied, all-day moisturising lipstick. Most of all, she liked the uniform that the grand department store made her wear for strutting around the fragrant marble floor of her domain.

  ‘You know why,’ she replied at last. ‘I’m far too busy. I’ve a career to pursue, and a sexy new fiancé to keep an eye on. Anyway, you were moving in very louche circles. All that champagne, all those pool parties . . . I couldn’t possibly have visited you, even if I knew where you were. I was worried I’d –’

  ‘Like it too much? You’re just jealous that I’ve been a lady of leisure all this time. Come on, Chrissie, you can take that poker out of your bum and stop looking at me as if I’m something you trod in. I’ve known you since before you lost your cherry. I was there when you lost your cherry, come to think of it, with Sammy Smithson and Sammy Smithson’s brother. Behind the Odeon, wasn’t it? Oh God, I remember now. We’d just been to see Nine-and-a-half Weeks and you were gagging for it. Any Tom, Dick or Harry would have done. But you needed both the Smithson brothers to do it.’

  ‘I can barely remember,’ she sniffed.

  I shook with laughter, and some pigeons flew off the wall and flapped away over the railway line.

  ‘It was better than anything they were showing on screen that day,’ I persisted, amused at her discomfort. ‘You were so hot. Your PVC miniskirt was up round your waist before you could say “Packet of three” and you were wrapped round Sammy Smithson like he was a lamppost.’

  ‘Well, he was as tall and strong as one,’ Chrissie couldn’t resist enlightening me. She tugged at her tight skirt. ‘And hung like a donkey.’

  ‘His brother and I were supposed to be the lookout, and I couldn’t believe it when Tommy Smithson got stuck in there as well. Abandoned his position as lookout, scuttled up and took you from behind, as I recall, while Sammy had you up against the wall. You were known as the Smithson sandwich after that.’

  ‘I never!’

  ‘All lanky legs and arms flailing like a windmill, until you all three crashed over into the dustbins and the manager of the cinema came flying out to see what the commotion was.’

  ‘Flailing like a windmill. That’s not very nice,’ Chrissie said, desperately trying to retain a stern expression. ‘But you would say that. Always ridiculing sex and romance, though I’m sure you’re addicted to it really. Actually, I thought it was a very beautiful encounter. All that teenage cheek and energy. Don’t get that these days with Jeremy, sadly. He’s always too tired. Ooh, they were like animals, those Smithsons. Wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want them to stop. They had my feet right off the ground, lifting me like I was a doll. I was weightless. Everything faded away except what they were doing to me. You know. That one little part of me was all I could concentrate on. I became that one little part.’

  Chrissie’s eyes were glittering under the sparkling eyeshadow. ‘But what a way to go. And there they were, the Smithson brothers; they had me helpless. All I could do was let them shove me back and forth between them with their thrusting while this wild fire built up inside me . . .’

  ‘I remember, I remember. God, I wish I hadn’t reminded you . . .’

  ‘Then the pair of them were grunting in my ears, but I liked it, I liked that they were brutes. And then we were all coming together, hammer and tongs. Wow! My first time.’

  ‘Enough! I shouldn’t have started this topic,’ I said. I held my hands over my ears. ‘A sensational encounter it may have been, but pretty damned acrobatic, too. I never knew a girl had so many orifices.’

  Chrissie wriggled on her chair, flushing red.

  ‘Chrissie, you’d love living abroad. That lifestyle is so totally up your alley, and you know it.’ I wasn’t going to let it go. ‘What would your perfume bosses say if they knew how you got a taste for the rough stuff? Their monocles would drop out if they knew what you did when you were bunking off college.’

  Chrissie was chilling. I could see a smile tugging at her lips.

  ‘They might congratulate me on having such a sharp business head on my shoulders, even aged twenty,’ she replied.

  ‘Yeah,’ I smirked. ‘More beautiful encounters. Enticing rich men into your mum’s house when she was out, promising them a trip to heaven in return for shopping vouchers, never taking cash so you could never call yourself a tart.’

  ‘And they never called themselves punters, did they? I got several wardrobes full of lovely clothes. Holidays. Cars. Even a job or two. Set me up for life, that did.’ Chrissie stretched her legs out in front of her and wiggled her neat ankles. ‘In more ways than one.’

  ‘Best not to remind your Jeremy that’s how you met,’ I ventured and she shot me a filthy look.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she flashed, lowering her feet again and pouring another glass of wine. ‘We’re a respectable couple, Jeremy and I.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ I soothed. Then I shrugged, teasing her. ‘Not that I’ve met the wonderful Jeremy yet. But still, with that kind of history, you can’t criticise me for being restless all the time. You were far more outrageous than me back then.’

  ‘Maybe, but that was back then. All the cheek of the devil at that age. I’m not as adventurous as you, Suki,’ Chrissie replied thoughtfully. ‘Not really. I know I’m safer in my little world, while you . . . you were always the tomboy, always wanting to spread your wings.’

  ‘Back then you were the one that the guys were after,’ I said and shrugged. ‘They didn’t interest me at all. I was too busy looking for a higher tree to climb.’

  ‘I used to think you were gay, you know.’ Chrissie paused to give me the chance to confirm or deny. ‘Are you?’

  I tried to look solemn for a moment, as if she’d struck a chord. What a lark it would be to throw her off the scent, and then try to live up to the lie. But I couldn’t.

  ‘I used to wonder about that, too,’ I admitted after I’d given up the fight to keep a straight face. ‘But it was only because I never fancied any of the boys. I couldn’t just spread ’em for any old jock. Not like some people I know.’

  ‘Oi! Less of your cheek. And I’m not like that at all. Go on. After all this time?’ Chrissie wanted to know. ‘Are you still the tomboy who thinks boys are stupid?’

  I drained my glass and looked away over the city. Another tube train rattled and vibrated below us. The sky was inky now, but no stars penetrated the smog. The bright headlights of circling aircraft were the only sparks piercing the thick cloud.

  ‘No. I like boys, don’t worry. The prince saw to that. I guess I’m still a bit of a tomboy, yeah. But there’s plenty of room for guys in this tomboy’s li
fe, I can assure you. Anything goes when you’re under the hot, hot sun.’

  ‘No one in particular, though?’

  ‘Nah. It turned out the prince had too many wives already.’

  We laughed again.

  ‘We’ll have to find you a man now you’re back in town.’ Chrissie pointed the wine bottle towards me like a microphone, as if she was about to interview me. ‘But who? And where?’

  Chrissie’s phone started to ring. She ran indoors to answer it, while I pondered her question. Who, and where indeed? Compared with where I’d just come from, where all the men, and women, lay about on sun loungers all day or skimmed the blue waves on their monoskis, where everyone was glossy, tanned, bright eyed and rolling in money, London seemed, in the few days I’d spent back here, full of pale, uninteresting, anxious-looking types scurrying along the pavements muffled up in anoraks.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Chrissie called, trotting back to the French window. ‘Just work, reminding me that I’m heading up a big perfume buyers’ conference and party in some country house on New Year’s Eve. Now, where were we?’

  ‘Manhunting.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. She surveyed me in the doorway, unable to stop her lips pressing disdainfully at the sight. ‘I wonder if it would help if we got you out of those clothes? And if you lost that cocky, mannish manner you’ve had since we were kids?’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped me getting what I want out in the Middle East.’

  ‘Maybe not, girl. But it’s autumn in England. Remember what that’s like? You can’t dazzle them with your polka-dot bikini and your horse-breaking skills in the middle of Piccadilly, can you? Men here expect more than that. Because you have to wear more clothes here in London, you need to work it in other ways. Twirl that curl round your finger, stroke your leg as if you love it, make your eyes big and sparkling –’

  I raised one eyebrow as she acted out her seduction technique. She frowned, and stopped.

  ‘Come on, Suki. You’re capable of being feminine when you put your mind to it. You used to go all fluid and dreamy when you were keen on some older man or other, or when you were listening to music, or planning some new adventure.’ She came and sat beside me on the wall. ‘But you were always pretty secretive. I was the one who was always going on about sex and boys. You never did.’