NATHANIEL IS COMPROMISED

 

   People frequently hire me for all kinds of strange purposes and assignments, but I am not often asked to defend teenage girls against lust. Temptation is a powerful force, and winsome teenage girls generally find me rather intriguing, whilst I take a pride in keeping all my engagements on a strict business footing. I consequently avoid temptation whenever I can, for I am a very serious malefactor, and regard hanky-panky as most unprofessional. Mind you, I am tested at times.

   Melinda tested me sorely. Melinda came into my life when Herschel, her husband, asked me to keep an eye on Rachel, their daughter. Herschel is a rich man, with a an extremely prosperous electronics business, a big house in Hampstead's Bishops Avenue that must be worth every penny of four million, holiday homes in Tuscany and Florida, and a good deal of additional property here and there. He is a man of power and influence, and I treat him with respect. He has employed me on a number of small jobs in the recent past: there was a matter of a rival who merited an early demise, and a politician who tried to block his way. Herschel has no concept of defeat. He also pays very well.

   However Melinda is a grasping woman, with a disconcerting penchant for collecting men. She is still very attractive, though she must be closer to fifty than forty, and spends a great deal of time working out in very posh health clubs: her hair is sleek, her body is toned, and the line of her chin may owe something to the attentions of an expensive Harley Street surgeon. She likes to hostess glittering parties, where Herschel can wander around looking avuncular, and patting hired waitresses on the behind. She herself turns a blind eye, because she always employs handsome young waiters. She is reputed to take them on two at a time.

   Rachel is a stout girl, with a strong bodily odour, and an incipient moustache. Herschel adores her, but most young men tend to give her a pretty wide berth, even though she has brilliant prospects: the thought of a woman trotting several hundred million into matrimony may tint many, many pairs of spectacles with a most rosy hue, but too much musk can create a major deterrent. Surprisingly for a man with such a sharp brain, Herschel also considers his daughter dishy, and well-nigh irresistible to the opposite sex. Perhaps paternal love is blind, or immune to to strong smells. Perhap Herschel thinks of the power his money confers: he tends to think of  people as commodities, to be bought and sold.

   Anyway he hired me last summer to act as Rachel's bodyguard. The idea was that I would trot at her heels to Ascot, and Wimbledon, and all the fashionable events, escort her on shopping trips, and fending off both paparazzi, and gold-diggers.

   'I don't want no good-time Charlies eyeing her up, leading her astray, Nathan.' Herschel was puffing at a giant cigar. He has never managed to get my name right, but his cheques are always generous. 'I want people to respect her, and to know she's a princess.'

   I nodded judiciously. Rachel promised to prove a good summer assignment, lots of nice outings, a fee as fat as her midriff, and precious little work to earn it. I stocked up on  'O' by Lancome - I do not often wear scent, but O has an ability to repel less pleasant odours, and from time to time I quite like to walk around in a cloud of my own making. I was set to enjoy myself.

   But then Melinda set out to hijack the party. Now I have always been wary of Melinda - she's the kind of woman who tries to manoeuvre you into a corner to arrange an assignation you would really rather not keep, and knifes you if you aren't up to scratch. Melinda's scratching comes very demanding.

   I tried to demur, but she caught me on my soft side, with an invitation to the Roux Brothers' Waterside Inn. The Waterside has a pretty Thames-side setting, and comes very expensive indeed. I like the Roux approach to fish, particularly with turbot in a crayfish sauce, and the cellar is really soigne. Some beautiful women eat there as well, and I always carry a few gold-blocked cards with my mobile number to pop into interesting handbags.

   Unfortunately Rachel came too. I found myself at a choice table, with a beautiful view, and I could see a woman some way off with a gold bracelet chunky enough to buy a decent Mercedes. But I was hemmed in. Melinda talked a lot, and I had to listen, and after a while my ears began to turn pink. I realised that Melinda had plans: she wanted me to squire them both around, and provide rather more than the escorting Herschel had in mind.

   'You're a handsome man, Nathan,'  Melinda was no good at names, either, 'and life being married to a tycoon can sometimes be rather dull.'

   'Mum thought you could take us both out together.' The look on Rachel's face was one that I considered grasping, and I could feel a fat knee nudging mine. Her odour was also growing muskier by the moment - I have often noticed that fat women sweat apace when they have a man in their sights.

   I backed away and played coy. I pointed out that I was working for Herschel, and spoke much of duty and respect. The two women looked disappointed, and I realised that I had bought a little time. But I had a nasty feeling that I was merely deferring, rather than commuting, a peril.

   My suspicions of course proved wholly correct. Melinda and Rachel drove off looking conspiratorial, and Melinda called me later that afternoon summoning me to lunch next day at Richoux in the Old Brompton Road, as a preliminary to a shopping sweep through Harrods, Harvey Nicks and Beauchamp Place.

   'We just want to look at some nice clothes, perhaps a bit of schmuck, that sort of thing,' she said, and she was plainly pitching her voice to be charming. 'We'll browse around, you can guard our parcels, we won't hassle you at all.'

   I was doubtful, but not too concerned. Melinda tends to spend in four figures when she picks up the odd piece of jewellery, and bodyguards come handy when tourists - and street crime - abounds. I dressed casually, and practised breaking a couple of bricks with the flat of my hand. Bodyguards must always be on their guard.

   Lunch went smoothly. Melinda and I nibbled at shrimp salads, whilst Rachel demolished a generous plate of pasta, and wiped dribbles of butter from her mousache with the  back of her hand. Then we set off shopping. Harrods went like a dream. Melinda picked up a pair of earrings for a couple of hundred, the kind of  big dangly things you see on nodding dogs in car back windows. But they looked good against her dark hair. We moved on to Harvey Nicks, and I relaxed my guard a little. No hanging about villains, no trace of danger. But then Rachel disappeared. I looked around, I looked up and down, I scented the air. No trace.

   I spoke to Melinda. She smiled, a nasty kind of leer. 'She's probably gone chasing men, Nathan.'

   My heart well-nigh stopped. I pictured Herschel's face, I imagined his disappointment. Lost to a good-time Charley, no less.

   I began to hunt, quartering one department after another like a bloodhound on heat. I found Rachel in a lingerie corner, posing provocatively. The man looked like an illegal immigrant, scruffy as all get out, and stinking like a dungheap into the bargain. I looked at him severely, and he blew away. But it was a nasty shock.

   I took Rachel back to her mother, and expected hard words. But Melinda merely beamed, and invited herself and her daughter back to my place for a an explanatory chat. 'Rachel's just a friendly girl,' she murmured, trying to take my hand, whilst Rachel smoothed her moustache into place. 'Let's go and sit in your garden, and talk this thing through.'

   Well, I don't know whether they had a line out on me, but both mother and daughter pounced as soon as they were inside my front door. Perhaps they had heard a rumour or two - these things tend to get out. But they were certainly questing as they rushed me in to my bedroom. It is not often that a malefactor has to fight for his honour, and I suppose I could have caused them some grief with a nasty look or two. But they had me stripped to my underpants before I could focus my thinking, and the next moment I was spreadeagled flat on my bed. I considered it all a most undignified experience, particularly as Melinda and Rachel discussed my finer points in some detail whilst debating how best to avail themselves of my services: I had Melinda sitting with her legs scissored around my neck, holding me breathless, and her fat, smelly daughter holding down my ankles in a grip of steel whilst she manoeuvered on my stomach in a bid to position herself neatly between my two members.

   I cannot say that I much enjoyed the next couple of hours. Melinda murmured endearments whilst she writhed around on me, Rachel broke wind in my face whilst holding me captive for her mother. Both chewed around on me with great determination, and played rocking chairs on my twin prides. Their demands were insistent, and prolonged. My Lancome proved totally incapable of defending my olfactory perceptions.

   Finally both dressed again, with the glazed look that accompanies satiety. 'You done well, Nathan'. Melinda sounded analytical, as though she was through with inspecting a nice piece of horseflesh.

   Rachel beamed in an unpleasant sort of way, and pulled a couple of fifties out of her Gucci handbag. 'Expect us the day after tomorrow.'

   I was alarmed, but managed a weak smile. 'Where do you want me?'

   It was quite the wrong question to ask.

   'Right here, Natty.' She spoke as though she had just bought me. 'We'll come for morning coffee.'

   I began to protest, but it was water on a hot stone.

   Melinda shook an admonitory forefinger. 'You want me to tell Herschel you made a pass at us both?'

   I was silent as they drove off in Melinda's cute little BMW convertible, and poured myself a tumbler three-quarters full of Armagnac - my favourite refuge in times of need. I was now in a quandary. I could imagine Herschel going ballistic. I could smell palpable peril. I may be a malefactor, and eternal for all practical purposes. But I am very fond of my home and possessions. I sat down with my glass to ponder.

   Then I had a bright idea. I have extensive connections in the London underworld, and Herschel is not always loved. I made a few phone calls, and found someone interested in engineering his downfall. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I grew increasingly desperate as time ticked past. But my connections came up trumps. Five men called at the house an hour before I expected Melinda and Rachel, and we made some simple arrangements. Two of the men were huge, and I judged them to be from distant foreign parts. But they were all very polite. Then I sat down to wait.

   Mother and daughter arrived dead on time, and I swear they were slavering as they reached my front door. I let them in myself, but then left them to my five visitors. The two women made some noise, and I think they broke a china ornament. But it was nothing valuable, and the pictures were devastating. Two women in the most compromising positions.

   I presented mother and daughter with framed copies - it is wonderful what one can do nowadays with computers, and the pictures printed beautifully from one of Herschel's top of the range systems - a gift for an earlier job carried out well.

   I never heard from either of them again, and Herschel sadly succumbed not long afterwards to a cardiac arrest. I felt a pang of remorse when I learned of his demise, and wore my best black suit to his funeral. I naturally steered well clear of Melinda and Rachel, but they were so heavily veiled they probably never noticed me. I regretted losing Herschel's business. But I was glad that I so neatly severed the connection.