His Plaything - Proposition

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  His Plaything - Proposition

  copyright 2012 GL Corbin

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  Max (Maxine to her mother) had been with Mullers Ad Agency for almost five years. They had offices in London, Birmingham and Glasgow. Their newest office, based in Manchester, was scheduled to open in just under two weeks. Max would be running the new office which she had spent the last three months setting up. From finding the ideal premises, to hiring staff, to organising the launch party - Max had overseen everything. She was in her element when she was in charge. Max was the first to admit she was a bit of a control freak.

  In London, she had shared a rather run down terraced house, but the combination of her new salary and the lower rents in the north meant she could afford a city centre apartment in Manchester. Initially, her plan had been to get a place of her own, but when she’d seen what was on offer if she was willing to share - she opted to do that. After viewing six other apartments which had been unsuitable (two were too small - two were in the wrong area - and two of the would-be flat mates were nutters), she had found the ideal spot. The apartment was a five minute walk from her new office. The rent was more than reasonable, and Chrissie seemed like the ideal flat mate. Chrissie had bright red hair and a pierced lip. Not your typical accountant, and yet she worked for one of the country’s leading accountancy firms.

  Mullers had taken offices on the second floor in the brand new Glacier complex - a stunning development right in the centre of the city. The launch party was to be held in the large reception area.

  “Everything on schedule?” Max said. She was travelling up in the lift with Jill, her trustee PA.

  “Everything except the sculpture.”

  “I thought that was due to arrive tomorrow.”

  “It was.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  A bell sounded as the lift doors opened.

  “Come into my office, and bring me up to speed.”

  Max grabbed two coffees from the new machine which was still in its free phase.

  “I can’t get any sense out of him,” Jill said. “Half of the time when I call him, he doesn’t even pick up the phone. I managed to speak to him yesterday, but he just fobbed me off.”

  “What does he think we are paying him for? Bloody arty types - I hate them. Well, he will just have to get his head out of his arse. I’m going to look a right tit if the sculpture isn’t here in time for the launch.”

  “I’ll call him again today.”

  “If you have any problems, let me know, and I’ll speak to him.”

  ************

  “Are you sure you don’t want to tag along with us?” Chrissie switched off the hair dryer.

  “No thanks.” Max stifled a yawn. “I’m shattered. I’m going to have a long soak in the bath, and then fall asleep in front of the TV.”

  Chrissie loved to go out - she rarely stayed in for more than two consecutive nights. She always invited Max to join her, but so far Max had only said yes once. It had all been a bit too much for Max - loud music, crowded bars - not her scene at all. When Chrissie and her friends had moved on to a nightclub, Max had made her excuses and returned to the apartment. As far as Max could make out, Chrissie appeared to have a number of boy friends, but not a boyfriend. Max envied Chrissie her easy manner around the men who visited the apartment. At work, Max came across as confident and relaxed, but for some reason that didn’t translate into her personal life. She had always felt awkward around men. She hadn’t had a boyfriend until she was seventeen, and hadn't lost her virginity until she was nineteen. Sex had always been something of a mystery to Max - she knew she wasn’t very good at it - at least that’s what her last boyfriend had told her. He had said she was frigid.

  “Hi Max.” Mickey was one of Chrissie’s many boy friends. Max got the impression he would like to be more than just a friend, but Chrissie didn’t seem keen.

  “Hello Mickey.”

  “Aren’t you coming out with us?” he said.

  “No. I’m...”

  “I’ve already asked her. She can’t keep pace with us northerners.” Chrissie was always ripping the piss out of Max's posh southern accent. “If you change your mind give me a call and I'll let you know where to meet up with us.

  “Okay.” Max had no such intention.

  “See you later.”

  “Bye Chrissie.”

  “Bye Max.”

  “Bye Mickey.”

  She was alone in the apartment again.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m sorry to drop this on you Max.” Jill said. It was nine in the morning, and Max had only just stepped foot in the office.

  “I can’t raise him. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Print me a map to his studio would you?”

  Max had a million and one things to do, but she had promised to sort out the sculpture if Jill hadn’t made any progress. According to the information which Jill had given her, the sculptor’s studio was located in a ‘craft park’ in what had once been a cotton mill on the outskirts of the city. According to Google maps, it would take twenty minutes by car. Whoever had compiled Google maps obviously hadn’t driven around Manchester recently. Max felt sure it would take her at least thirty minutes. She tried the number which Jill had given her, but got no reply. What a tosser – why couldn't he at least answer his phone?

  As Max made her way to the lift, Jill came running after her.

  “James is on the phone for you.”

  Max rolled her eyes. James Stephens was one of the directors of Mullers. There were four directors in all – two of them were great; the other two – not so much. James Stephens was a waste of space. Max considered asking Jill to tell him she had already left, but realised he would simply call her on her mobile.

  “Switch it through to my office would you?”

  Max did a U-turn and went back to her office.

  “Morning James.”

  She listened for the next five minutes without speaking. James Stephens loved the sound of his own voice. James Stephens loved everything about himself.

  “It’s all in hand,” she said eventually. “Yes I’m sure. Just a last minute hiccup with the sculpture. I was on my way to sort it out when you rang.”

  She listened for another two minutes.

  “Okay. See you then. Bye.”

  ************

  Score one for Google maps. Much to her surprise, the journey had taken only nineteen minutes. Once she was there, it took her almost as long again to locate the sculptor's studio. The building was a rabbit warren of small units which had once been individual offices or store rooms. Each one now contained a small crafts business - everything from candle maker to basket weaver. At one point, she thought she'd found him when she saw his name on a door at the end of a corridor on the first floor. The room had been empty, but there was a small note taped to the back of the door which showed he had moved to a larger unit on the third floor.

  She knocked on the door, and waited. There was no reply, but she thought she heard sounds coming from inside. She knocked again, louder this time.

  “What do you want?” The man standing in the doorway was tall, well-built with Jet black hair. Max put him in his early thirties.

  “Well?” The man sounded annoyed.

  “Mr Jewell?”

  In her head, she had conjured up a mental image of what he would
look like. A skinny, pale faced man – probably with a goatee. She couldn't have been any more wrong. This guy was really good looking; not at all what she had expected.

  “Yes. I'm Tom Jewell. What do you want? I'm busy.”

  “I’m Maxine Lewis...”

  “I never see anyone without an appointment.” He began to close the door, but Maxine put her hand on it.

  “You’re doing a sculpture for my company.”

  “Doing? I do not ‘do’ sculptures young lady.”

  He might be hot, but the man was obviously a prick, No wonder Jill hadn’t been able to get anywhere with him. Where did he get off calling her young lady? She wasn't much younger than him. Condescending arsehole.

  “I work for Mullers - the ad agency. You have a commission to make a sculpture for our new office.”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “The launch date is a week on Friday.”

  “And...?”

  “I'm here to ensure the sculpture will be completed in time for the launch.”

  He sighed. “You better come in.”

  Max followed him into the room.

  ************

  Walking across the room was precarious because the floor was littered with tools, papers and all manner of dirty cloths. Max looked around; it looked like the fallout after a nuclear blast. The windows were covered in dust and grease.

  Suddenly, Max stopped dead in her tracks. Directly in front of her was the sculpture of a young woman; a naked young woman. The sculpture which Mullers had commissioned was some kind of modern art monstrosity; the brain child of Carl Rice, the agency’s creative director. For some reason, Max had assumed all of the work in the studio would be modern art pieces. Max didn't move; she was transfixed by the young woman’s large, perfect breasts.

  “Beautiful isn’t she?” Jewell was at Max’s side now.

  Before she could respond, he began to run his fingers over the stone woman’s breast. Ridiculous as it was, Max could feel herself blushing.

  “I’m particularly pleased with her nipples.” He had one between his finger and thumb.

  “Yes - very nice.” It was all Max could manage - her cheeks were now burning.

  “Cassandra has such beautiful breasts.”

  “Cassandra?”

  “The model of course. It can be so difficult to find a model with large, but firm breasts.” As he spoke, Max was conscious of his gaze drifting down to her chest.

  “Where’s our piece?” She needed to change the subject - and quickly.

  “On the bench over there - covered by the grey cloth.”

  Max manoeuvred around the sculpture with the perfect breasts, and made her way over to the piece she had come to see.

  “Voila!” He removed the cloth with a flourish.

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. In front of her was a pyramid shaped sculpture. On each side of the pyramid was a different shaped hole. It reminded her one of her nephew's toys which she had watched him play with the last time she'd visited her sister. The little boy had been really good at putting the right shape into the right hole.

  “Well?” Jewell said. “What do you think?”

  “It’s.... nice.” Could she have sounded any less sincere?

  “Nice?”

  “Interesting. It’s interesting.”

  Each of Mullers' offices had a sculpture in their reception area. This had been the idea of Henry Muller, the founder of the agency. Although he was long dead, it was a tradition continued by the current board. Max had been so busy organising everything else; she hadn’t given a thought to the sculpture. It was only when it had looked as though it wouldn’t be delivered on time that she had felt the need to get involved. She had no idea what the spec for the commission had been, so she wasn’t best placed to know if the object now in front of her satisfied the brief.

  “Is it...?” She hesitated. “Is it finished?”

  If looks could kill - she would most certainly have been dead.

  “Of course it’s finished.”

  “So what’s the delay?”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a delay.”

  “My PA has been trying to contact you for days. Don’t you ever answer your phone?”

  “Not when I’m busy. Cassandra’s nipples have had all of my attention for the last few days.”

  Somehow, Max managed to stifle a laugh.

  “Have you ever done any modelling?”

  His question came out of nowhere, and caught Max completely off guard.

  “Me? Certainly not.”

  “You should. You have a great body.” His gaze moved from her breasts, down to her legs, and then back to her face. “I have an eye for this type of thing.”

  Normally, if a stranger had been so forward, she would have been tempted to give them a slap or at least a mouthful. His manner was so matter-of-fact, so clinical - that she didn’t know how to respond.

  “I’ll arrange for the piece to be collected.” Max tried to sound composed. “Some time tomorrow.”

  “Before you leave,” he said. “I have a card somewhere.”

  Max watched as he rummaged through a drawer; he appeared to be off in a world of his own.

  “Here we are.” He handed her the grubbiest business card she had ever seen. “If you decide that you would like to model for me, give me a call.”

  Max took the card, and dropped it into her pocket. The man was obviously off his head. It was easier just to humour him.

  “So? Is tomorrow okay?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Can I arrange to have the sculpture collected tomorrow?”

  “Yes, yes. Whenever.”

  It was time to get out of there. Max squeezed passed him, and made her way out as quickly as she could.

  Chapter 3

  “How did it go?” Jill asked when Max arrived back at the office.

  “Sorry, what?” Max was miles away. On the drive back, she hadn't been able to get Tom Jewell out of her head. She'd never met anyone like him. By rights, she should have been creeped out by the way he had looked her over. If he had been the skinny, goatee bearded guy she'd expected him to be, she would probably have been yelling 'pervert'.

  “How did it go with the sculptor guy?”

  “Okay... I think. We should be able to collect the piece tomorrow.”

  Max started towards her office, but then hesitated. “Did you ever meet him?”

  “The sculptor? No. I've only spoken to him on the phone – when he could be bothered to pick up. Are you okay Max? You look... kind of weird.”

  “Yeah. I'm fine.”

  “So what's he like?”

  Where did she begin? Max thought about it for a few moments.

  “Typical arty type,” she lied. “Can you organise the collection tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  Back at her desk, Max felt inside her pocket. The business card was dusty, and bent on one corner. She held it over the waste bin, but didn't drop it in. The card was minimalist in design; it simply read:

  Tom Jewell

  Sculptor

  The only other thing on the business card was a telephone number – a landline not a mobile. There was no web site, no email, no Twitter or Facebook. But then, Tom Jewell hadn't struck Max as a social networking type of guy.

  When Jill walked into the office, Max palmed the card quickly. Why had she done that? Why did she care if Jill saw the card?

  “You looked like you needed this.” Jill slid a cup of coffee across the desk. “Did you see it?”

  Max looked confused.

  “The sculpture. Did you actually see it while you were there?”

  “Yeah, it was... what's the word? Different. Not my sort of thing.”

  “Nor mine. I don't get all this modern art stuff. Are all of his pieces like that?”

  Max remembered Cassandra's nipples, and almost blushed.

  “Yeah. All pretty much the same.” She didn't want to get into a discussio
n about his other work.

  ************

  It was almost none O' clock by the time Max arrived home. She was relieved to find Chrissie was out. Max wasn't in the mood for small talk, and she certainly didn't want anyone trying to talk her into a night out.

  All of these late nights at the office had better be worth it. She didn't get paid extra for working late, but she told herself it would pay dividends long term. Max was ambitious, and she knew that running the Manchester office was a giant step up. She wanted to be on the board of Mullers within the next four years. Beyond that, her own agency was the ultimate goal.

  The red light on the answer phone was blinking. Max hated the bloody machine; she'd only had it installed in order to placate her mother who refused to own, or even to call, a mobile phone. 'I don't trust them'. Max loved her mother dearly (her father had died seven years ago), but she found her lectures quite wearing. Her mother was completely unimpressed with Max's career advancement. 'Why would you want to work in Manchester?'. Her mother was only really interested in when Max was going to marry and have kids. Every conversation began with her mother asking if she was seeing anyone. Max wasn't desperate to have kids (one day maybe), but she did resent the constant reminders that she was alone. She played back the messages – all three of them. Sure enough, they were all from her mother. Max couldn't face the prospect of calling her back tonight; she would call her in the morning – probably.

  Right now, Max needed a long warm shower. She'd grabbed something to eat on the way home – fast food – what else? Perhaps one glass of wine afterwards, and then to bed.

  ************

  “Are you sure?” Max snapped.