Follow the Money

British English spelling and grammar.

I wanted to put this in Loving wives, but many will whine they’re not married. If my main character is a bit aloof from it all – that’s deliberate.

***

Follow the money

I’m Dave Marchant. When I first moved to this town, I decided to buy the worst property in a good location. I could have afforded a modern three bed apartment close to my new employer; a consultancy company. But I went for a three bed semi in an older part of town. It had potential.

The previous owner had done the expensive improvements; double glazing and electrical rewiring, and then he got a job transfer. The front door was peeling and inside it, new wiring terminated in an ugly mess around the fuse box. There was a stand-alone garage, three foot from the rear of the house. As you stood at the garage door, there was a wrought-iron gate between its corner and the house corner, leading to the back garden.

I settled into the new job and began work on the house improvements. It cost nothing to scrub the front steps, poison the weeds, and stick some cotoneaster under each window. A new UPVC door and frame cost seven hundred and fifty pounds and put twelve fifty on the value. I boxed in the wiring, and disguised it with a coat cupboard. Then I dismantled the garage while I waited for planning permission for the next phase. It was around that time, I got a girlfriend.

Her name is Eleanor, or Ellie. She has shoulder length hair which is a genuine gold colour. And her eyes are pale grey; almost white. She’s a fair bit wealthier than me; married well and got a big life assurance payout when her husband died in a car smash. He left her with a four bed detached house in a better part of town. She continues as PA to the CEO of a company where she’s worked for years.

We met when I did some consultancy work for them. Out of the blue she asked me if I’d take her to their Christmas party. I was surprised; we’d hardly spoken and she was wearing a wedding ring. It turned out it had been six months since her husband’s death, and her friends were pestering her to come out of her shell. But she didn’t want to date any colleagues, and propositioned me on the spur of the moment.

“If you’re otherwise …”

“No, no, I’d love to!” I assured her. “I’m new to this town and need to meet people.”

She was still embarrassed so I tried to ease the situation.

“How about we go somewhere for a drink before the party? Say, tomorrow? Then we’re not total strangers.”

And that’s what we did. She was happy to let me know her address, and agreed I could pick her up in a taxi on party night, so we could both drink. It was a good party and I noticed she had now discarded her wedding ring. She relaxed after a few drinks and we had a great time. I was polite and respectful, and rewarded with a goodnight kiss.

A second, well third, date followed and she stayed the night at my house. I knew she was used to a bigger place and sensed an attitude next morning at breakfast.

“So why are you moving the garage?”

“Ihere’s such a waste of space down that side of the house. There’s room for one car to park on the driveway. Mine’s there now while the garage is being dismantled.”

“So?”

“But in front of that there’s space for two more cars alongside the house. That’s enough for four if you include the garage; space I can do nothing with. Can’t build on it, or grow anything.”

“OK. How does removing the garage improve things?”

“I think I’ll get planning permission to resite it flush with the front of the house. It’ll make the property look bigger, and still leave a space for visitors. I’ll build an extra room behind it, incorporating the house’s side door. It’ll be a laundry room and give more space to the kitchen. And the hard-standing where the garage is now, can be the base for a greenhouse. If I do most of the work myself, it’ll cost around eight thousand. And put around twelve on the value.”

“It’s a pity you couldn’t afford a bigger place to start with.”

I didn’t reply.

“Sorry.” she said. “That came out as a criticism. I’m not used to having to worry about such things.”

“They don’t worry me.” I replied.

And that’s how we progressed. Her friends were polite and some were good fun. But I always sensed they tolerated rather than welcomed me. But it didn’t matter; our sex life was amazing. It was like I’d set off a box of fireworks. Ellie turned into an instant nympho. We did normal, oral and anal sex. And she usually finished me off with her mouth; so I could go down on her for round two. She was liberated, and soon she wanted to do the double.

We discussed the idea, and agreed it was just a question of choosing someone suitable. I’ve heard about guys who get friends involved, but neither of us wanted that. We thought it would be more exciting with a stranger. The rules were: she could do anything with him, but I had to be there. Partly, it would make her feel safer, and partly because I wanted to watch. Our opportunity came at a party. By then we were mostly having sex at her house; she was not really comfortable at mine. With getting the go-ahead to move the garage, it was in a state of upheaval anyway.

“Sweetie, do you have a better suit?”

“What’s wrong with the two I have?”

“Nothing, but they’re for work. We’re invited to a party at Lancaster House.”

“That’s a stately home isn’t it?”

“Not quite. The man who owns it has a title. He’s Earl of something or other. I know him as Rupert Kingston, and he and his family actually live there.”

“So, how did we get invited?”

“You know I’m PA to Giles. Well, he and his wife got invited. We’re suppliers to two or three of Kingston’s businesses. He has this bash on the Friday closest to May 1st; I think it’s a celebration following the end of the tax year in April. But Giles can’t attend. He and Margot are flying to Florida, to visit their son. Apparently, Rupert asked if I could attend instead; I think he fancies me.”

“We’re brought on as a last minute substitute.”

“If you like, but don’t knock it. This is one of the highlights of the social calendar.”

“I’m sure it is – in their heady circles.”

“Don’t be so common. We can pick up all sorts of useful contacts. Anyway, I’ve accepted on our behalf. Look.”

She handed me an embossed invitation:

‘Ms Eleanor Durston and Mr David Marchant are cordially invited …’ – our names printed already. I’m down-to-earth, but understand the value of networking.

“But down the bottom here, it says ‘Dress Informal’, so why the question about suits?”

She frowned slightly; I could see the question irritated her. It was an emerging pattern in our relationship: she felt superior to me. But I would put up with that for the hot sex.

“For this society, ‘Formal’ is an evening gown for me, and dinner jacket and tuxedo for you. ‘Informal’ is cocktail dress for me, and expensive suit for you.”

I wanted to go, but baulked at the expense of a new suit. My money was going into the house.

“OK. I’ll hire one.”

She paused. Mentally, I was begging her not to offer to buy me one. I do have some pride.

“Fine.” she said. “I’ll help choose.”

It was Friday and we were in a taxi on our way to the party.

“What’s that for?” I asked, indicating a holdall. “I thought you had a small clutch bag, to match you cocktail dress.”

“I do.” she replied. “This is for overnight. This afternoon Giles called from the airport and told me more about the party; we should stay overnight. Lancaster House has plenty of guestrooms and the party tends to run late. You usually leave stuff round my place, so I’ve packed you a T-shirt, jeans, and clean briefs; same for me.”

“No bra?”

“I only wear them to work since I met you!”

“Well staying over is fine. I expect they have kedgeree and kippers for breakfast. It’ll make a nice change.”

There was a pause which hinted at her irritation.

“What I’m saying,” she continued, “is it can get raucous after midnight. Those who cannot be seen to indulge, slip away around eleven. The rest tend to do rather more than just flirt. There’s reputed to be bed-hopping during the night.”

“Wow!”

“The rule is that nobody has to go beyond their limits. I thought it might be an opportunity for us to try what we discussed, about involving another man.”

“We did discuss it. So far, you’ve only had your arse felt in a dance club. I’m looking forward to you going further as long as I can watch, and possibly participate; I want to go for it. Are you wearing panties?”

“Yes. The little black thong you bought me. I also packed some anal lubricant.”

“Good move. Any other preparations I should know of?”

“Well, I know you like my pubic hair, but I did just tidy it up a bit, with a trim.”

“Not shaved though?”

“No.”

At the front door, a servant took our invitation card and handed us each a glass of champagne. As we entered the ballroom, an imposing figure made a beeline for us.

“Good evening Eleanor. This must be David. I’m Rupert.”

We shook hands and I liked him. An attractive woman appeared at his shoulder and he introduced her.

“Please meet my wife Renée.”

I held out my hand but she grabbed my shoulders and kissed both cheeks, making that strange ‘mwa’ sound. But she did make contact – not an air kiss. She repeated the greeting with Ellie and then produced a silk handkerchief and wiped her lipstick off us.

“James!” called Rupert.

A figure that looked like a waiter appeared.

“Take our guests’ bag to the west wing; and put it in the blue room, would you?”

Soon we were mingling with the toffs and after a while the circulating waiters disappeared and lights came on over a bar in one corner. Next to it was a table covered with a cold buffet. We checked them out. There were a dozen different scotches behind the bar; mostly single malts. Ellie ordered a white wine. I didn’t want to get too drunk too early, and asked if they had beer. This drew a frown from her, which disappeared when the barman answered.

“Certainly sir, we have lager in the guise of Carlsberg,

We’ve Dry Blackthorn if you’re a cider man and a fresh cask of Old Timer if you prefer bitter.”