The Ninety Days of Genevieve Read Free Page B

not. He was so elegant and controlled, she couldn't imagine him being turned on by such schoolboy props. But then you never knew. She slithered further into the bath. The foam came up to her chin. She felt relaxed, hugged by the scented water. 'Well, all right,' she agreed, hoping she sounded as if she was granting him a favour. 'As long as I can go in the evening.'
    'You can go anytime,' he said. 'And the day after tomorrow you'll meet me at the Garnet at eight.' There was a pause. 'And like I said, lady, you wear what you like on top, but underneath it's my choice.'
    She knew the Garnet to be an exclusive and expensive restaurant. If she had to wear black stockings and open crotch panties to please him it would be a fair exchange for what would certainly be a marvellous meal.
    After her bath, wrapped in a silky kimono, she checked out her London A to Z. The road name he had given her was in a residential suburb, and not a particularly classy one. It made his instructions all the more intriguing. There were plenty of kinky shops in London ranging from the smart to the downright tacky. What was so special about 43 Harmond Street?
    Genevieve was still thinking about Sinclair's instructions while having lunch the following day. In the summer she often took a break from her colleagues and bought herself a couple of rolls in a small pub that most local office workers had not yet discovered. She had no objection to talking shop, but sometimes she just wanted to eat in peace.
    She was still trying to decide what she would find at 43 Harmond Street (her favourite choice being a middle-aged housewife sewing naughty knickers for bingo money) when someone thrust an A4 portfolio under her nose and said: 'Take a look at these!'
    Almost choking on her roll Genevieve turned round angrily. She recognised the voice and knew exactly who she was going to see: Ricky Croft, his hair straggling over his collar, and his face unshaven. He wore a battered Levi jacket and jeans. She could not remember seeing him in anything else. His enemies (and his friends) reckoned he slept in them.
    'Go on.' He sat down opposite her and pushed the portfolio towards her. 'Look.'
    'No,' she said.
    'You've never seen anything like this before,' he said.
    'Ricky,' Genevieve put down her roll. 'There is no job for you at Barringtons.'
    'Oh, I know that,' he agreed. 'I'm not pretty enough, am I? I don't fit the image. Tell me, what are well-dressed graphic designers wearing these days?'
    'You know we don't give sod all what you wear,' Genevieve said crossly. 'You're simply unreliable. You haven't learned what the word deadline means.'
    'I'm an artist,' Ricky said. 'Artists don't work to a timetable.'
    'They don't work for Barringtons either,' she said. 'We employ professionals. And I don't want to see any more lovely logos for non-existent firms.'
    Ricky was undeterred. 'Just look,' he said, tapping the portfolio. 'These are reductions. The originals are much bigger.'
    Despite herself Genevieve reached for the portfolio and opened it. She knew Ricky Croft's work. She had once given him a freelance assignment. He had turned in some brilliant ideas - six weeks too late.
    The first clear plastic envelope contained a pencil drawing. Detailed objective drawing was one of Ricky's specialities, but it wasn't the skill of the almost photographic rendering that surprised Genevieve. It was the subject matter.
    A soldier in eighteenth-century military uniform tumbled with a young woman on a four poster. The two of them had clearly been romping together, the girl's full breasts were exposed, her frilly skirts were bunched up round her waist. She wore dark stockings gartered at her thighs. The man was kneeling between her plump but shapely legs, holding her ankles apart. His jacket and undershirt were undone. Although his own erection was visibly bulging through the tight material of his trousers, he was obviously intent on oral sex rather than penetration.
    Ricky had drawn the