By the time Jeff’s limo reached the front of the hotel, the protestors had calmed down. Lieutenant Krober was on the portico steps waiting for him. Jeff fiddled nervously with his bow tie and gave the camera crews a tight smile before hurrying up the steps. There was a chorus of whistles from the crowd. He stopped and turned to look at them. Cheers and clapping drifted through the muggy evening air. When he checked with Lucy Duke her face was expressionless. So he did the only thing he could think of, and gave the people behind the barricades an inane double thumbs-up. The volume of the cheering actually rose slightly.
His humor picked up no end. “Maybe I should run for president,” he said as they walked through the wide entrance into the lobby. Lucy Duke strode on ahead, the suggestion unanswered.
The idea behind the joint sciences council was to coordinate all scientific research funded by the government, ensuring that taxeuros were spent sensibly and that there was an end “product.” In order to obtain a grant, the applicant had to provide a project plan that listed benefits, economic gain, and end result application. It was the sort of review board that Jeff thoroughly disapproved of; hands-on bureaucratic interference in university and agency programs always led to pure science being impoverished. In this case it was even worse. The two original councils hadn’t been abolished to make way for the new; instead the joint council had been created to complement them, producing another tier of bureaucracy complete with overpaid civil servants and increasing the time it took to process applications.
With true civil service instinct to protect itself from criticism, the joint sciences council had created the annual project awards to shower praise and continued finance on the most productive ventures conducted under its auspices. In reality the event was just another rubber chicken dinner bringing together edgy researchers with bored junior ministers and loafing reporters.
This year, though, the joint council chair had gotten more attention for the awards than she could ever have dreamed of. It resulted in her giving one of the worst after-dinner speeches Jeff had ever winced his way through, with utterly obscure technical references and jokes a ten-year-old wouldn’t bother telling. It was his turn after that. Decades of experience had made him insist on a short self-deprecating speech that was mainly anecdotes about the pitfalls of recovering from rejuvenation—along with one botanist and butterfly joke, which got a big laugh. Then he had to present the five awards for outstanding achievement. After that it was Rob Lacey’s job to sum up, which he did with admirable dignity, saying how indebted society was to the unsung heroes of the research teams, and the inevitable promise of more money for science when he was elected president. The round of applause he won at the end was genuine enough.
THE BRUNEL CLUB was thankfully a damn sight more lively than the hotel ballroom where the dinner had been held. It had a long curving bar in the lounge, and a darkened dance floor. The DJ was playing an energetic mix of eighties and noughties tracks, and the bar staff boasted about the range of cocktails they could make.
He saw the chair of the joint council sitting at a table in the corner of the lounge, her head in her hands. Three cut crystal tumblers were standing on the polished table in front of her, only one with any scotch left in it. Other members of the council were clustered around her, offering heartfelt support. As Brutus had done for Caesar, Jeff thought.
“I’d like to introduce you to the Downing Street deputy chief,” Lucy Duke said. “If you’re up to it.”
“Sure, wheel him on,” Jeff said.
The spin doctor made her way over to the bar. On her way she passed a girl in a glittery dark purple evening gown who smiled coyly at Jeff as she approached.
“Hi,” he said. She was in her late twenties—genuinely, he thought. Her dark hair was cut short to curve around a very pretty freckled face. Now that she was standing just in front of him, he couldn’t help glancing at her breasts. It was a reflex he found himself committing a lot more recently. In fact, just looking at women in general was something he’d been doing more of since the treatment, certainly compared to the decade before.
“Hi yourself,” she drawled back. “Good speech, by the way. Liked the joke about the butterfly. Did you really slide off the toilet in the Brussels hospital?”
“Yeah, ’fraid so.”
“I’m Martina. And you’re Jeff Baker.”
“That’s right. So what do you research?”
“Research?”
“You were at the dinner. The awards are for working scientists.”
“Oh no.” She laughed. “I’m a production assistant for Thames News. I just lucked out being here tonight.”
“How is that luck?”
“The start of Lacey’s campaign. No offense, but we wouldn’t normally give the awards this kind of coverage, not even with you here.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
“Do you want to dance?”
He saw Lucy Duke heading back with the determination of a hunter on the scent, the deputy chief in tow. “Sure.”
AFTER MONTHS ON THE WORKBENCH, and several tests to fine-tune the engine, the Jet Ski was finally ready for its first outing. Transport was a problem. Colin and Martin and Simon had been the main helpers, and of course they had their girlfriends they wanted to bring along; and there were others in the crew like Philip and Sophie who couldn’t really be left out. Then there was the Jet Ski itself, which was an awkward size. Simon’s uncle’s long-base Land Rover could just fit it in, but that didn’t leave any room in the back for people. It was going to be quite a motley convoy of vehicles heading for Tallington Lakes.
Tim was glad when Annabelle turned up early at the manor on the Saturday morning. He was in the kind of subdued, sulky mood that only she could cure.
“How are you coping?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“Really?”
Tim was twisted up by two conflicting urges. He badly wanted to look at her today of all days, because she was wearing a very narrow black T-shirt that had YES! AND THEY’RE FULL OF BEER, TOO printed over her breasts, the sight of which made him feel incredibly randy. Yet there was an instinctive impulse to hold back and avoid talking to her about how he felt because of the turmoil in his mind. He just couldn’t understand what was going on with his father.
At least three news stream gossip reports had shown the video of Martina Lewis coming out of the Knightsbridge flat at half past seven in the morning, still wearing her purple evening gown. It wasn’t a very clear image; somebody had copied it from one of the street’s security cameras. But it did show his father in a bathrobe, standing on the doorstep to kiss her good-bye before she hopped into a taxi. All the reports had given the hyperlink for Ms. Lewis’s life site, where she had added the latest paragraph about how much fun Jeff Baker was, and how the rejuvenation team had done such a good job, in every department.
Life at the manor had been pretty much unbearable after that.
“Not bad, I suppose,” he said with a shrug.
“Have they been arguing? I remember my parents arguing a lot when Mum got her job in Brussels.”
“A bit. Not arguing. Just cold with each other. Mum was furious, I mean so much angry.” He’d never actually seen her so livid before. It was sort of scary, especially when the rest of the Rutland nonworking mothers club rallied round. They’d held several late-night vodka sessions in the living room, discussing the merits of men. Tim had overheard just part of one conversation and slunk on up to bed praying they hadn’t seen him.
“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Annabelle said. “He is her husband, and he got caught red-handed.”
“Yeah,” Tim said meekly. He really didn’t want to go into his parents’ private lives, at least not what had gone on before with his mother and everything, or rather everyone. He found it hard to see why she was so bothered about Dad having an affair. The publicity, yes, but the actual act…“I don’t know why he did it, though. He and Mum had been getting on really well since
his treatment. I mean so much well.”
“Ah,” Annabelle said wisely. “Well, that Martina looked quite fit, and your dad was away from home.”
“For one night. And Mum’s a lot better looking than she is.”
“Way of the world, Tim.”
“It might be, but it’s pretty shitty.”
“Your dad’s a celebrity, probably the most famous person in Europe after Lacey and Sir Mitch. Certain kinds of women are bound to fling themselves at him. Would you have said no to Martina if she’d asked to go to bed with you, if she’d pleaded?”
This time he looked straight at her. “Right now, yes. I don’t want to go to bed with her, or anyone else. Just you.”
“Ah,” Annabelle murmured. There was a long moment as they just stared at each other. Then she kissed him, which turned into quite a passionate embrace.
“I so much want to go to bed with you,” Tim moaned as if he was in pain.
“I know.”
“Why can’t we? I love you. I so much do.”
“You’re so sweet.” Her tongue delved down into his throat. She could feel his hands sliding up her stomach. His desperation was actually quite a turn-on. Being desired and adored so un-questioningly was immensely satisfying. “Wait.” She leaned back from him, nearly laughing at the anguish on his face at the separation. “Watch this,” she teased. Her hands went up inside her T-shirt, moving around to the clip on her bra strap. Then, shrugging out of the shoulder straps, she pulled the bra out.
Tim’s delight at seeing her breasts pushing against the T-shirt’s thin cotton was slightly checked by his amazement at the Houdini bra trick. “How did you do that?”
“Haven’t you ever seen it before?”
“Er, no.”
She moved back up to him, and brushed her lips against his. “You’ve been going out with the right kind of girls.”
“You mean, the wrong kind.”
“No. I’m the wrong type.” Grinning dangerously, she pulled the T-shirt up. For a moment she thought Tim was going to faint.
“God, Annabelle,” he whispered. “You are so sensational. I mean, they are fantastic.”
Annabelle giggled, and took hold of his hands, bringing them up so he could cup her breasts. His fingers closed around her stiff nipples.
“Hey, they don’t come off, you know,” she said.
“Sorry.” Not that he let go, just eased off slightly. His deliriously happy expression never wavered.
“Lick them,” she growled. “I like that.”
Tim’s tongue slid out as he obediently lowered his head. She let out a little moan of pleasure at the shock of his hot wet tip touching her sensitive areola. He moved from one to the other. Her hand reached for his belt. She was getting so hot she probably would have sex with him this time, even though she was sure he wouldn’t match up to Derek.
They both heard someone pounding along the landing outside.
“Tim!” Martin yelled. “We’re here.”
“Fuck!” Tim snarled.
Annabelle quickly pulled her T-shirt back down.
Martin barged in, a wide, happy smile on his face. “I’ve got the Land Rover parked outside, I’m sure there’s enough room for…” Which was what everyone wanted. So he wasn’t expecting Tim to be staring at him like a pre10 slasher film psycho whose next victim has just arrived. “You okay?”
Tim shivered as if he’d been caught in a blast of icy air. “Sure. Just so much copacetic right now, thanks.”
“What did I do?”
“Nothing,” Annabelle said. She ignored the way Martin’s eyes bugged as he looked at her chest. “Is everything ready?”
Martin nodded enthusiastically. “Er, yeah. Colin’s downstairs; Simon’s borrowed an e-trike, he’s taking Rachel; and Vanessa and Sophie are going to catch the bus out there. They’re bringing the food.”
“Great,” Tim grumbled.
“Let’s go then.”
Tim gave Annabelle a long, woeful look, then picked up his bag. “All right, we’ll get loaded up.”
“See you there,” Annabelle said. “I’ll just use the bathroom first.”
Tim slouched out of the room, looking even more unhappy than when she’d arrived. Martin gave her a curious glance as he followed Tim out.
Annabelle sighed, and sat on the bed. She really would have shagged him, too. It had been the perfect moment, wild and spontaneous. With Tim in that frenzied state, the sex would have been quite something. Her smile slowly returned as she thought about how she could have driven him crazy in bed. It would have put her completely in control.
She’d learned a lot about sex from Derek over the last few weeks. Every Sunday morning since the party she’d received a txt from him, summoning her to Nottingham. She told her father she was out with friends, and those same friends she was visiting family; then caught the ten-thirty bus, arriving there for midday. His digs were in a converted office block near the center of the city, overlooking the canal. Two rooms with old, cheap furniture, a grotty carpet, bad lighting, and dirty wash he stockpiled to take home to his mum on his monthly visit. The bed was narrow with a thin mattress, underneath a window that had a towel for a curtain. He did change the bedclothes before she arrived each time.
Annabelle stayed for three hours every Sunday. That way she could catch the four-twenty-five bus home. If she missed it she’d have to wait until the next one at seven-ten. She’d stayed longer once, thinking they would spend the extra hours having more sex, or going out for a meal, talking happily. It didn’t happen. Even a fit twenty-year-old had physical limits. And they had nothing in common to make conversation about. Derek had laughed at her for the way she admired Stephanie Romane, though like all boys he respected Sir Mitch. They didn’t go out because his friends might see them.
Annabelle knew she was just sport sex to him, his Sunday afternoon workout. She didn’t mind that; what they did to each other physically was really good, and quite excitingly dirty. It was only during those long empty bus rides home she would feel the doubt and guilt rising. What she was doing was shabby and disgraceful, but it was completely secret. Safe. So when the next Sunday came around and he sent his txt she’d get back on that bus again.
ANNABELLE CAME DOWN the manor’s stairs in time to see the long-base Land Rover driving away. A couple of the Europol team were sitting in the little lounge they’d taken over, talking quietly. She waved casually to Krober as she went past.
Jeff walked out of his study, carrying an empty tea mug. He just managed to stop his jaw from hitting the floor at the sight of her. “Oh, hi,” he mumbled. It was like encountering a vision, he thought, except this wasn’t quite the classical image of the Virgin Mary. Annabelle was wearing a gloriously tight top that exposed a feast of flat midriff. Her denim skirt didn’t make it halfway to her knees, while her feet were engulfed by absurdly big gray and black trainers with thick platform soles. White socks were crumpled loosely around her ankles. There was a long scarlet stripe in her hair.
She was staring back at him, adopting the kind of dismissive slouch that only teenagers could manage. Nothing in the world was relevant or interesting to her. Especially him.
The way she looked and acted was so incredibly desirable. He simply wanted her, right there and then. Not only that, he wanted what she was.
“Yeah, hi,” she grunted apathetically.
“Are you coming, or going?”
“Going. We’re off to Tallington Lakes.”
“That’s a shame. I never get to see much of you.” His gaze scanned across her T-shirt, making a show of reading the print. “Are they really?” he asked with a modest little grin.
Annabelle couldn’t believe he’d gone and said that. But his unrepentant, cheeky expression made it very hard to be angry with him like she knew she ought to be. “There’s only one way to find out,” she said archly. For some reason her mouth was trying to smile.
“I can spare a minute.”
“Gosh, a whole minute.
Those seventies girls never knew how lucky they were.”
Jeff laughed.
Annabelle flashed him her coyest smile and hurried out through the manor’s double doors. Not too fast; that would give the impression she was flustered. As she emerged into the sunlight she realized her bra was still lying on the floor of Tim’s bedroom, and the T-shirt really was very thin. “Oh, you Bad Girl,” she murmured to herself. But once again her body had put her in charge. Her smile was still in place as she climbed onto Tim’s e-trike.
Jeff’s hands were shaking as he watched her walk across the gravel. The encounter kept running through his mind like a video file stuck on replay. “Jesus wept.”
You can’t, he told himself sternly. You absolutely cannot. Not with her. Anyone else, but not her.
TALLINGTON LAKES WERE SITUATED several miles outside Stamford. Originally huge quarry pits, they’d been filled with water and over the decades developed into a superb water sports and yachting resort. There was a lake for each activity: sailing, water skiing and boarding, windsurfing, and Jet Skiing. The four main lakes were separated by strips of land that were lined with elaborate mobile homes and small A-frame cabins, each one with its own mooring.
Martin’s parents owned one at the far end of the Jet Ski lake, a caravan that was eight meters long and luxuriously furnished, surrounded by tall pines and silver birch trees. Wooden decking ran along one side, covered by a blue-and-white-striped awning. A big solar-pumped barbeque grill stood at one end.
The Land Rover was parked outside, just off the dirt strip that lined the lake. The Europol bodyguards parked their BMW a few meters away. Tim and Martin and Colin manhandled the Jet Ski out of the back of the Land Rover as the others started to arrive. Pretty soon they were all inside the caravan, laughing and shouting as they got changed, ready for the big day.
Martin and Simon hefted the Jet Ski up between them and carried it down the steep slope to the shoreline. Tim stood at the top, wearing swim shorts and a tatty old UV-resistant shirt.