Trust Me to Know You (6 page)

“Morning,
Gemma. We need to get a move on. You’ll need dropping off at your apartment for clean clothes. I can drive you there and you can make your own way
to work. There should be enough time.”

Jason was very business-like now. The man who peered over my shoulder in his office was back. I jumped up and started to find my evening dress from the floor somewhere with my tossed aside knickers.

It was only later, when I was reflecting on the evening, I realised how little was said the following morning. He did not refer to our sex as if it had been a shared dream rather than reality. No post-mortem had occurred after a separate showers and the rush to get to work had pre-occupied our thoughts.

Dressed, we stood at his kitchen’s breakfast bar and gulped down coffee and buttered muffins. I did not have time to take in my surroundings. There was no grand tour of his house. Last night all I had seen was his hallway, corridors and broad staircase as I followed him to his bedroom. I barely recollected the interior and now all I had to add to my scant album was his kitchen.

He was checking his mobile for messages and seemed thoroughly
uninterested in my presence. Ten minutes
later, we were ready to go, leather briefcase in his hand and driver summoned
to ferry us to my apartment. Sitting in the back of his car, he turned to me as if remembering me from his distance past. Reaching for his
briefcase, he pulled out a few sheets of printed paper.

“I need you to sign this,” Jason waved the typed document in front of me. “It's a confidentiality agreement.”

“But, Jason, didn’t I sign one when I started working for you?” I was puzzled by his request.

“Yes, but that one was about company secrets, this one is about me,” he leafed through the pages and it was certainly a lengthy document. “I’m a rich man and the status can make me vulnerable to little girls with wicked ideas,” he sounded stern, like a strict headmaster.

“Oh I see. This is all hush-hush.”

“Very hush-hush, I don’t fuck employees, so you are an exception
to my rule. A big exception.” H
e handed me a pen.

I scribbled my name at the end of the both copies, folding one and putting it in my clutch purse.

“Good,” he said putting his copy away and then he returned to his deep thoughts until his mobile started to ring.

The rest of the journey he was on the phone, early morning calls to whoever was out of bed
at that time of the day bombarding him with facts and figures. Plenty of people it would seem. I was not a morning person
and I struggled to collect my rambling thoughts into a cohesive place. We arrived at my meagre one-bed apartment, which was located on the ground floor. As the car pulled up outside the building, it dawned on me that I had not given the driver my East End address nor provided him with directions.

For a few seconds,
I was alarmed that the location of my flat was known to Jason. He was a man of considerable wealth and I surmised he
would not spend a night having sex with a new
woman, even an employee, without doing a check on my circumstances. I could have lied about being single or perhaps I was a secret blackmailer. All the
same, I was unsettled that he knew where I lived. I had never invited any man back to my home or told them my address. My little pad was a sanctuary,
a very important place of escape. Would Jason respect my privacy as he had asked me to protect his?

The rent for the pitiful accommodation swallowed up virtually all of my wages after I jacked in my last better-paid job. After seeing Jason’s mansion, my flat’s location and upkeep were especially pathetic in comparison. I was close to being embarrassed about my status until I sat up straight and reminded myself the little abode
was mine. I had worked hard to afford having my own living space in an expensive city. Its particular advantage
was being a direct bus ride to work.

“You can catch a bus from here?” asked Jason. The wonders of public transport were not on his radar.

“Yes. A street away,” I gestured with my arm.

The car door was opened by the driver and I took one last look at Jason. He cocked his head to one side to have a better view of me.

“Bye, Gemma Marshall. Have a good day,” he said with a cool detached voice.

That was that, no parting kiss or hug. I said nothing back as I was stunned into silence by his lack of personal touch. An evening of erotic,
mind-blowing
sex. The encounter was nothing else to him. Why was I deflated, I should had seen this romantically vacant game coming a mile off. After
all, I was an expert in them.

Three days past and I heard nothing from Jason. No phone call, emails or photocopier
encounter.
The first day of the new week, the Monday, I was on an emotional high. I bounded into my communal office like Tigger on amphetamines and took everyone by surprise by being chatty and engaging. I did not mention Jason, just managing to stem the ardent desire to spill the beans and let everyone know I had been fucked by the CEO. The need to maintain secrecy and good conduct kept the urge at bay. Packing my secret love life away out of sight, I implied the concert had instilled the good humour in me. The explanation was met with obvious disbelief from the others in my room.

Penny laughed at me as I spoke with passion about being surrounded by voices in beautiful harmony.

“Really, Gemma, you need to get a life. When was the last time you were laid, hey?” she asked and I blushed with a shrug of my shoulders. The comment sent me scurrying back to my desk and I quickly immersed my head in work.

The next day I began to feel the deflation. I did not bounce about the office on my sexual high. I said little and focused on my long list of outstanding tasks. My original scenario was correct. I had been his game for the night and he had enjoyed me and moved on. I was not the innocent party though, I had used him to wake up my libido and stoke my neglected fires of lust. It would be wrong to accuse him of leading me astray. He had asked me for a fuck and I had given it to him. We had both had our pleasure zones served and the confidentiality agreement added to the sense of being nothing more than a one-night stand. He may not have his little black book but I suspected he kept mental notches of his conquests on his headboard as an alternative.

I went out for lunch, as sitting amongst my colleagues was painful as they talked incessantly about boys and dates. I found a side street with a café and ate a panini. The hot melted cheese burnt my mouth and the strong coffee gave me a headache. All around my solitary table were people going about their daily lives and they wove about me as if I was stuck in a time warp. I flicked a crumb across the table and picked up my handbag. There was nothing to do but return to my desk and eke out my wages.

The third day I went into analytical mode. Somewhere I had displeased him or misinterpreted his intentions. The wrong signals had been picked up and I had played along without thinking it all through. My ridiculous fantasies about being the mistress of a millionaire had clouded my perceptiveness. The realisation that my judgement was to blame upset me as it implied I was never going to find my self-confidence again. I had it so wrong. I thought he liked me. An exception to the rule he had said. That had to amount to something – did it not? Obviously not.

Jason fucking Lucas,
screw you
.

However, deep down, I was despondent and quite depressed by the lack of attention. I resorted at night-time to entertaining myself, keeping alive the memory of the Sunday evening in me as I found release. There was nobody to tell me not to do the indulgent act.

***

I fiddled with the buttons on my landline phone, psyching myself up for the dutiful weekly phone call to my mother. Thursday evening and I was curled up on the settee in my poky lounge. Conversations with my mother were often fraught. She worried, what mother didn’t?

“You never bring boyfriends home, Gemma!” A frequent comment and often accompanied by the furtive suggestion. “You’re not secretly one of those...”

I had to hide my embarrassment as I had reassured my mum, yet again, that
I was not a lesbian. I
did not think she would have cut me off but it would have at least explained the lack of boyfriends.

“No mother. Absolutely not. I just haven’t met the right guy for me,” I would soothe her on each occasion.

“Hi, mum,” I spoke softly to her as she greeted me.

“Oh, Gemma, it’s lovely to hear from you,” she paused. “I was wondering when you would ring. Are you visiting soon? Your dad has been very busy I know, extra shifts, but we really would like to see you.”

I sighed. Her wish to see me had its origins
back when I had not visited them for two months.

Yes, I did disappear out of circulation for a while, but there was no way I could had ever told her why. What followed was a meandering chat on no particular topic as I guided her away from the idea of a visit. I was sure my face would reveal too much and I needed more time to apply my mask better - mothers were far too perceptive.

***

Friday had arrived and my desk phone rang - an unknown internal number.

“Gemma Marshall,” I said while typing with one hand, handset wedged under my chin.

“Miss
Marshall. I hope you have had a productive week?”

Jason Lucas is speaking to me!

I stopped typing with fingers poised over my keyboard. All my doubts were obliterated in a flash. The go-between of the Personal Assistant was absent, which was a good omen.

“Uh yes, Mr
Lucas, uh very good,” I stumbled over my words, flummoxed. My skin was flushed and warmed by the sound of his voice.
I glance nervously around wondering if anyone can hear my conversation. I imagined a big neon sign above my head flashing his name up as if I had won at bingo.

“I should hope so. My employees should always work hard,” he growled at me.

“Can I help you, sir?” Where to put myself, was the relationship on or off?

“It's Friday night and you’re coming to visit.” A statement not an invitation.

“Sure,” I accepted the request without a moment’s thought and my insides were churning.

“Bring whatever overnight things you need.” Then he put the phone down. I was nearly ready to come there and then such was my pathetic state!

The practicalities of getting to his house suddenly dawned on me. He did not want anyone to know I was with him. I wondered if I should ring him back.
An email pinged in my inbox and as if to answer my
question, he had written instructions for me:

: 7pm your apartment, be ready.

I slumped in my seat with relief, problem solved.

***

The Jaguar was there waiting for me as I clambered in the back in my jeans and t-shirt, lightweight jacket over my shoulders. His driver, Martinson, put my messenger bag in the boot for me. Jason was on his way home from work and looked the part in his tailored dark business suit.

“Hello, Gemma.”

“Hello, Jason.”

Greetings were somewhat mute.

“What’s wrong?” probed Jason.

“Just, I thought you weren’t interested in me anymore, until I got your call,” I blurted out, not hiding my disappointment.

He looked cross, very cross indeed.

“Gemma, let’s get this clear, I’m the owner and director of a big company, lots of things on the go. Long meetings, long days. I told you I worked hard. Don’t expect me to be all lovey dovey and romantic with you. There isn’t going to be flowers on your desk, poems in your emails or whatever. Get use to it,” he spoke harshly.

I looked down at my hands and my mind filled with silly contrite thoughts. For the entire week, perhaps I had been reading too much into his lack of interest in me. The most obvious explanation had been missing from my list; a busy chief executive would not have the inclination to woo his lowly intern. I should had known better, I was not really the romantic demanding type.

“Sorry.” It was all I could think to say.

“Have you eaten?” his voice had softened.

“Uh no, should I have?”

He laughed at my question. “Well if you were hungry – yes!”

I blushed back at him.

“I’m sure my housekeeper will have left enough of a dinner for two.”

Housekeeper – well, I should had guessed he had staff, I wonder if she was young or old.

We were in his kitchen and Jason inspected the fridge contents cautiously, like a foreign territory. The kitchen had a modern design, though it fitted with the house. Plain smooth wooden doors with simple handles. The surfaces white, spotless and clean. Apart from the coffee maker, toaster and kettle, nothing was out on the surface. Too sparse for me, I liked my kitchens to look like they were being cooked in.

“Great plenty here. Cutlery and stuff over there in the dresser,” he waved behind me as he fished out covered dishes and bowls.

A few minutes later, we were sitting at the pine table in his kitchen. An informal setting, I could not imagine Jason not having
a plush dining room hidden in his spacious house. His jacket and tie had been divested somewhere, and I could see the smooth skin of chest above the button. I purred, thinking of how
I had
traced my fingers over his back and chest. He had impressive muscles for a man who lived in an office.

The food was deliciously good and the wine he offered was way beyond my usual price tag - an ice-cold white wine and very tangy.

He talked, hesitantly at first and then more relaxed as the wine worked around his body. Jason Lucas was a
self-made man who started his own business from scratch. Supported by a loving family, two brothers and a sister. Father and mother sufficiently endowed with money to send him to private schools and a good university. He told me he was bored by it and did not
fit in with the typical student crowd. As soon as he had done his duty to his parents and
graduated, he was off and built his empire. A natural flair for both business and leadership he took no hostages as he rose through the glass ceilings of city financial status.