Death by Indulgence Read online

  Ella was dumbfounded. Folding her arms, she sat silently back in her seat until the girl moved away to deal with a stroppy man at a table nearby who was demanding a refill of coffee.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been so stupid. You’ve used me to get what you want, and now you’re hitting on Emo-girl. What do you want her for?’ Ella asked, then without pausing answered her own question. ‘Have you just pulled? No, no, no… you’ve been coming here for quite a while now, so it’s been planned. Working your way into her knickers. What an unscrupulous cow you are, Valerie Royal! Isn’t she too young for you?’

  ‘Take a closer look. She’s older than you think.’ The hunger on her companion’s face was not for want of food and Ella surrendered to the inevitable truth. Val was not going to be swayed from the chase although when she did finally drag her eyes away from the wretched joyless waitress, she answered Ella’s query. ‘And no I didn’t know exactly what or who Buxham’s caters for, but I did have a pretty good idea. It doesn’t take a genius.’ She paused, craning to catch a glimpse of Emo-girl’s backside. ‘I think I’ll give dinner a miss.’

  ‘Great. Who am I supposed to go to Buxham’s with if you don’t come with me? Ada’s already covering my old art class so that I can help you instead. That’s another forty quid you owe me, by the way.’

  Val picked up her phone and, after a short delay, snapped her orders. ‘Mal. Get your glad rags on and use one of those flashy cars of yours, you’re taking Ella out to dinner. I’ll text you the details. Yes, tonight. Naturally it’s work, you moron. I’d hardly ask you to do this if it wasn’t. No, you’re not a babysitter; she needs your experience and advice. You can pretend to be Ella’s brother. Adopted brother. You’ll think of something.’

  Ella was relieved. Having Malik with her would be so much more comforting than coping with Val. He would fit in, be well dressed enough to be unobtrusive, be observant and with his cocky attitude, invaluable.

  ‘Is he picking me up from home? Tell him seven o’clock. I don’t want to miss too much. Evidently, they hold a gourmet pudding club on a Wednesday once a month. It could be that our two men are regular attenders. I didn’t have a chance to see the table bookings for tonight.’

  Val coughed, crackling catarrh making an abrasive sound. ‘Don’t be too nosy too soon. Enjoy the evening; absorb what you can. Let Mal seek out the CCTV and security issues. You behave like a nervous new staff member.’

  Ella had no need to pretend, she was already playing host to nervous anticipation as she examined her appearance in the full-length hallway mirror in her bedsit. Her glamorously curled hair tumbled over her right shoulder, laying on the exposed neckline of her 1950s retro swing dress. Red and black. Striking.

  She grinned to herself. A clandestine club for lovers of full figures, flesh and food, how brilliant. She would fit right in. As the doorbell rang she experienced a rush of long-dormant excitatory neurochemicals, but she failed to properly register their arrival.

  ‘Mal. Don’t you look every inch the James Bond! Handsome, dashing and smelling divine. Does my carriage await me?’

  There stood Malik, exhaling a long ‘wow!’ at the sight of his date for the evening. Malik Khan, Mal to his friends, or sometimes Magic Mal when he was on top form, had the whitest, broadest smile Ella had seen outside of advertisements for toothpaste. Other than his smile there was nothing unusual of note about Mal. His accent was South London; his presence registered as a tall solid Indian man with an air of self-confidence and a sprinkling of unpredictability.

  ‘Makes a change from being The Invisible Asian Taxi Driver when I’m scouting for Val. Like the whistle?’ he asked, flashing his jacket open to reveal an iridescent purple lining.

  ‘Lovely,’ Ella replied, giving him an assuring grin, before she closed the flat door behind her. She didn’t want him to see inside her lowly home.

  Once she had calmed down from the initial thrill of being driven in a brand new Porsche 911, they had enough time to agree a strategy for the evening.

  ‘As I said on the phone, I had to ring ahead with our details and the car reg. I hope you don’t mind what I chose for you as a name,’ she said.

  ‘I love it. Phil-the-print was mightily impressed.’ He passed her a plastic wallet containing several business cards. ‘I think the ink is about dry.’ Mal was to be Ella’s businessman stepbrother, giving him the honour of becoming a Fitzwilliam for the duration of her time at Buxham’s.

  ‘I bet everyone calls you Ella Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Yes. They do. It gets on your wick after a while. Especially when they think it’s the first time you’ve ever heard the joke.’

  Mal whistled as they approached the entrance gate of Buxham’s. ‘Clock those cameras. No one goes in and out of here without being seen.’ Leaning through the opened window he pressed the intercom. ‘Ella and Mallory Fitzwilliam. We are expected.’

  ‘Welcome. Carla Lewis has approved your admission. Once through the gate, please park in the bays on the left.’

  Ella’s mouth was dry as she clung to the clutch bag on her knee, looking intently through the windscreen while the car moved through the opening gate. The engine of the Porsche made a comforting low throb.

  ‘Well, Mallory Fitzwilliam, let’s go and see if we can convince anyone you are my rich protective stepbrother.’ She passed him back the small wallet containing his bespoke business cards. ‘Very professional.’

  ‘Yep. What’s more, I didn’t even have to lie. I am a security specialist. Hang on I’ll come round to your side and help you out, these cars are a bit low. Amita always used to moan about how unladylike it is. Then again, she disapproved of my passion for high end sports cars altogether.’

  ‘I could get used to it. Are you and Amita a thing of the past then?’

  ‘Yeah, thank Allah. Apparently I’m a disgrace as a Muslim because of my loose morals, so within twelve months of our hideously pricey arranged marriage ceremony she made a case for divorce. My parents have accused me of bringing shame on the family name but at least she’s pissed back off to Bradford and I’m free of her incessant bleedin’ nagging in that stupid northern accent of hers.’ He gently closed the door to the Porsche with a clunk. ‘It’s on loan. Don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘On loan?’

  ‘One of the family businesses. Executive sports car hire. Some of my fellow Asian brothers like to look the part even if they can’t afford it.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Ella said, swallowing a smile. She couldn’t fail to notice the designer watch that poked from beneath Mal’s pricey-looking shirt and the sleeve of his tailor-made suit. Probably snide.

  ‘This makes for a pleasant change from being your minder, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Minder? Have I been that bad as a pupil? I thought you were supposed to be my mentor, showing me the ropes, honing my skills.’

  He was teasing.

  She let the matter drop. ‘Yes. It does make a lovely change from sitting with you in a car for hours.’ Ella was trying to appear relaxed in Mal’s company and, on the whole, he was on his best behaviour, being unusually attentive to help manage her nerves. They entered the building through a set of elegant glass doors and into the main reception where they were greeted by neatly attired staff keen to help.

  ‘Good evening and welcome as our guests to Buxham’s. We hope you enjoy your first experience with us. As non-members, we need to inform you that, like smoking, use of mobile phones is not allowed inside the club. We ask you to switch them off, or if you prefer, we can take them into safekeeping. We know how tempting it is to sneak a peek at your messages, but the privacy of our guests is paramount. This rule must never be breeched. Phones can be used on the veranda at the rear of the bar by our gourmet members and for our full members they can use them in their accommodation.’

  Mal didn’t react negatively. ‘What a refreshing idea, luv. Yes, that’s no problem.’ He pulled a smartphone from his pocket, switched it off and handed it over, giving the receptioni
st the benefit of his dazzling smile. Ella did the same.

  The lady they handed their phones to grinned back. ‘I’m Caroline and this is my colleague Nula. We’re looking forward to working with you, Ella. I hope your husband likes his food.’ She risked an admiring glance at Mal.

  ‘He’s my big brother, actually. But he is married, in case you were wondering.’ Ella touched Mal on his sleeve before taking the receipts for their phones that had been placed in individual locked metal boxes and stored in numbered pigeonholes behind the reception area. The lie about him being married had fallen merrily from her mouth without her having to think why. He was handsome, single, and he was with her, working. Minding her. He was not there to be interfered with by lecherous women he’d never met before.

  ‘Thanks for the lovely welcome, I’m sure I’ll be very happy here,’ Ella said, saying a secret prayer to herself that she didn’t become too happy. Too happy meant excited, elated and inappropriate. Too happy meant hypomanic, unstoppably chatty and overconfident. It could lead to disaster.

  She and Mal were directed to the restaurant and met by a heavily pregnant lady who Ella rightly assumed to be Teresa, the incumbent hostess whose job she was to cover.

  ‘Welcome. How would you prefer to be addressed?’

  Ella and Mal looked at each other, slightly bemused by the question. Teresa continued. ‘Confidentiality dictates that we avoid using full names in public. The privacy of members is very important, so we mostly stick to sir or madam, but if you prefer we’ll go with Ella and …?’ Teresa was smiling. She too seemed more interested in Mal than in meeting her replacement, but, nevertheless, was warm and polite.

  They were shown to table number sixty-six in a luxurious booth and sat down opposite each other, not quite side-on to the rest of the room. ‘Table sixty-six. Interesting,’ commented Ella as she took a menu from Teresa. ‘There can’t be that many tables in here.’ She was given an unexpected thumbs-up from the glowing hostess. ‘You pass your first test. Very observant. Buxham’s prides itself on its generosity. Portions of food fit for Roman banquets, wide comfortable seats, and huge bedrooms. Indeed everything has ample proportions to meet the needs of our clients, and for that reason the table numbers reflect the ethos of the club itself. Bigger is better. Therefore, table one becomes eleven, two becomes twenty-two and so forth.’

  Ella couldn’t help thinking about bingo calls. Legs, eleven. Two little ducks, quack, quack, twenty-two. Clickety-click, sixty-six.

  She and Mal scoured around taking in the sumptuous surroundings and humming their approval. ‘Will tonight be busy?’ Ella enquired, keen to glean as much information as possible from Teresa, while she had the opportunity.

  ‘Wednesdays are brilliant. I shall miss them. The first Wednesday of the month, today, we host The Lensham and District Pudding Club, who are a noisy bunch of delightful individuals. The chef prepares four courses for them. Each one is a dessert and the pudding club members discuss and vote for their favourite. Simple pleasures, devoured with much enthusiasm. We have our regulars and, without fail, table number eighty-eight will be in use as it is every Wednesday. You’ll get to know them very well.’ Teresa popped her eyebrows skyward. ‘We’ll meet in private to discuss our regular clientele. I’m afraid, as your husband is here, I can’t divulge confidential information.’

  Mal stepped in. ‘I’m her brother. Stepbrother actually.’ He handed over a business card as Ella again reiterated his marital status, untrue though that was. She hadn’t predicted how irresistible the female staff members at Buxham’s would find her colleague. Bloody flirt, she thought, as she watched him with Teresa.

  ‘I find pregnant women incredibly appealing, as it happens,’ he said casting his eyes towards Teresa’s firm, rounded pregnancy. ‘I’ve never been able to work out whether it’s because they seem to radiate health or whether it is to do with the signs of miraculous fertility.’ Ella cringed as Teresa melted and let out a girlish titter, whispering the words printed on his business card.

  ‘Oh, I see, Mal is short for Mallory, what a lovely name.’ She held the card aloft. ‘Security advisor. Can I pass this on to the general manager? He’s looking for someone in your line of work.’

  Seconds after Teresa had turned to head back to the meet, greet and seat area, Ella coughed, putting Mal on alert. She had spotted Harry Drysdale the lawyer, and his friend. The men were accompanied by two over-endowed, alluring women in their late thirties and the group were aiming rapidly towards a booth in the corner of the room where they could hide from enquiring eyes. The ice in their drinks tinkled as they passed by.

  The woman with her arm through that of Harry Drysdale’s was fair-haired, bouncy and blue-eyed, dressed in a flowing skirt and blouse. In sharp contrast, the tall lady with Harry’s male companion was tastefully attired in a cream two-piece suit that served to accentuate her curvaceous figure and contrasted most strikingly with her coffee coloured skin. The black buttons and collar detail hinted at how up-market she was dressed and she looked every inch a powerful businesswoman, her style speaking of her intelligence. The tight-fitting skirt reached modestly to her knees and yet the apparent lack of shirt beneath the jacket signalled a deeper intention. Sleek black long hair lay flat against her back, waving gently with the rhythm of her strides as she walked confidently by, hips swinging.

  They took their seats at table eighty-eight. The number was on a small brass plaque neatly screwed to an ornate wooden upright at the entrance to the private booth.

  Two fat ladies, eighty-eight.

  10

  That same evening

  Marcus Carver could barely contain himself. Leonora had become his chosen favourite. Pressing his right thigh against her left, he slid his hand around her waist. He rested it on the shelf of flesh there, savouring the feel of her, pushing his fingertips gently downwards to experience the resistance. His heart rate increased alarmingly. He could hear the beats in his head and noted the pressure in his chest. She turned to him, an understanding pity in her eyes.

  ‘We eat first. Then, and only then, do you earn your reward, Mr C,’ she whispered, touching him softly on his right cheek.

  Marcus smiled and passed her the menu.

  His friend and companion, Harry Drysdale, was less restrained. Orchestrating a fumble as if he had dropped his serviette, he rocked forward and, pretending not to be able to locate it, buried his head deep in Ciara’s lap as he scrabbled about. He breathed in loudly.

  ‘Oh God, that is so warm and welcoming,’ he declared when his head popped up from beneath the table, shaking his cheeks like a dog. ‘I must apologise again for keeping you both waiting in the bar. My dear friend, Mr C here, got his knickers in a twist about his birthday tomorrow and had to have a long phone chat with his wife to placate the scatty woman.’

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably and shot a warning look at his friend. He disliked any reference to his family life. Not on a Wednesday that was the rule. Home life, real life and his secret life had to be compartmentalised for his own sanity and his professional reputation. The lines were becoming blurred between his work and his desires, and this was a dangerous time, a battle with himself.

  Harry shouldn’t have mentioned Lydia, and he apologised immediately before changing the subject to a more acceptable one. ‘Ladies, shall we explore the menu?’

  This part of the ritual was more than titillation; it was an excruciating form of foreplay for Marcus. He took every opportune moment to touch Leonora’s hands, thighs, and waist. Occasionally he ventured to place his thumb against her upper ribs allowing his fingers to find the curve of her right breast as she sat leaning against him. His eyes swept from the line of her jaw, down to her collarbone and thence to her cleavage. The most magnificent heaving chest beckoned to him, but which was not to be accessed until later that evening in the privacy of his room.

  The conversation ranged from current affairs to film and entertainment until the food arrived. When it did, silence fell broken only by low
hums of gratification at the flavours and textures of the irresistible dishes placed before them.

  When Harry had first introduced him to the pleasures of Buxham’s restaurant, Marcus had been amazed by the efficiency of the club’s employees. The hostess was always the height of discretion and never announced their full names in public. The waiting staff appeared only when required and didn’t linger or disturb the flow of the conversations. None of them passed comment about the female guests that were signed in each Wednesday and who left in the early hours by taxi. If Harry weren’t due in court the following day, his female companion would sometimes stay the entire night.

  Harry liked variety.

  Marcus preferred the familiarity of Leonora. She had an uncanny knack of identifying his weaknesses, playing games with her eyes. She was demonstrating her ability at that very moment by sucking on a straw, holding it daintily, then wiping a stray splash from her chin and intentionally, slowly, licking her finger. In any other context this would go unnoticed but for Marcus this was heaven and she capitalised on his reaction with a brief shimmy. The resultant rippling undulations in her breasts forced him to close his eyes and chastise himself for his reaction. If it weren’t for the tablecloth hiding his groin, he would have been mortified at his lack of control in public.

  ‘Not eating, Mr C?’ Harry asked, noticing how quiet his friend had become.

  ‘Yes. Saving myself for pudding.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Harry was laughing at him. They’d had an in depth discussion during their walk from the station and Marcus had confessed to his dread of Christmas putting a barrier in the way of his weekly indulgences. He’d also disclosed his crumbling defences and the risks he had begun to take in his professional life. It hadn’t been the phone call to Lydia that had made them both late for dinner with Ciara and Leonora; it had been an emergency meeting in Harry’s room.