Chapter Four
 
The truth is over rated. Films are better. Only the realization that Julie Andrews who played Mary Poppins and subsequently was persuaded to get her kit off in Blake Edwards movie "10" gives me hope.
 
 

The Seduction of Mark.

 
I'm swimming through blackness, murky viscous warm, a light is on at the end of a long tunnel.
I am a foetus experiencing rebirth. "Mama , mama," I gurgle. No one hears me in my liquid sac.
 
"It's ok -she's back,  - she's back with us." one anguished, urgent but grateful voice.
 
Then many voices, all talking at once, I make out . "It's a miracle, a miracle."  Another, a different voice somehow deeper, this one moved to tears" It's a miracle" I distinctly make out the words in the mayhem
 
"Indeed - a miracle - let us all give thanks and praise", seems to be the general concensus.
Tears, heartbreak, so much love, so much hope enveloping me as I struggle fitfully back into the world of the living.
 
Distant in the background churchlike music tinkles, audible still over the sea of voices. There follows a rush to my bedside, a mass crusade of babble and confusion. Microphones are thrust in my face. With some effort I force my eyes open as flashbulbs explode all around. In my improving near vision I see many hands scribbling frantically on notepads. So many questions all at once. From the back of the baying mob, eminent physicians in white coats are forcing their way through the throng, stethoscopes at the ready, they hang down from their owners ears, and snag on cameras as the medical specialists force their way through to me.
 
A difficult choice for me, I prioritize in my head - I'll choose adulation first please then when that's over, you can check me for my well being, then let's move on to the fame, exposure and interviews OK and Hello magazine first pretty please.
 
I might change the batting order if I feel a bit dicky.
 
However, the choice has been taken away from me, - with the help of tall burly minders the reporters and paparazzi have been cleared from the room, brisk efficient nurses are pulling the cubicle curtains closed all around me and the doctors converge upon me.
 
I languidly raise an arm as the flashbulbs continue to explode through the cracks in the curtains.
 
The arm is directing the camera angles to the very best side of my profile.
 
I hear reporters outside the curtains frantically telephoning in a variety of tongues.Their copy is on it's way reporting back to news shows all around the globe. I find my level of celebrity and love is intoxicating and I am momentarily overwhelmed.
 
I wake.
 
It's all been a dream.
  
There is no one.
I look around me. My surroundings are unfamiliar. To my surprise and disgust I see that I am in a large but plain double bed in a darkened room but I know it for what it is I am in the second best guest bedroom in Mark Reynolds country residence.
 
It's not the number one suite-therefore it's inferior. There is an implied insult here. On all my other visits to Chez Reynolds his blue apartment in the west wing has always rightfully been my abode. 
 
Aware that I am robed in something lumpy and ill fitting I struggle for wakefulness but don't quite make it. I am so weary, my bones are tired. My mind slides into black velvet treacle and I am gone once more.
 
I wake.
There is no one.
 
Correction.
 
There is Xavier
 
Xavier and me.
 
Xavier, his back to me, is opening the curtains, the room is empty and silent,
 
"I see, you've rejoined us madam" he laughs irreverently, an old mans mouth with a sea of young white teeth.
 
 
I glare back at Xavier, as ever he is impeccably dressed, - resplendent and impeccable in his crisp starched butler attire -these days he is the intimate manservant to Mr Mark Reynolds. He is timeless, the undead. Over the years, or perhaps I should say centuries he has been the jewel at the heart of the Reynolds staff and the Reynolds family have loved and employed him in many different roles.
 
When I first knew him, he was a sprightly 96 year old, that was back in 1980 and he was employed as Marks bodyguard. A business rivalry had initially fuelled my interest in the Reynolds family and I made it my business to get to know them well. Keep your enemies close to yourself-that sort of thing.
 
Along the way I came to learn of the inheritance awaiting the then young Mark Reynolds and under my watchful personal tutelage I helped him to become enraptured with my own daughter Cassie.
 
I quickly learned that if I wanted to know all the intimate secrets of  the Reynolds clan, Xavier would be the man to tell me,  - except no matter how hard I tried - he wouldn't. Not then -not now. He is impossible to know - as far as Iam concerned. Xavier's been involved in everything that's gone on in the Reynolds and latterly Marks meteoric rise to prominence. Xavier, the bastard, has never told me anything. Furthermore I am sure that he is steeped in blood that he has shed in his mafioso devotion to Mark.The two are inseparable.
 
Despite many private meetings and I do mean your best "R" rated private meetings that I engineered with Xavier he has tested impervious to my charms.
 
In his bodyguard years circa 1980 he allowed me to even wrestle him to the floor on one occasion and just when I thought I was making progress, judging by the sounds of his moans between my thighs, he slipped out from my heels with the excuse that he had to make a telephone call. He did not return that evening.
 
Five years later, in 1985, by then he was then Financial and Protocol Adviser to young Mark, he again resisted my advances and would tell me nothing. In a fit of anger I declared that I would blackmail all the secrets out of him and if he didn't play ball I would have no option but to give all the sordid details of his perverted bestiality towards me, to his employers Ma and Pa Reynolds, god rest their souls. When he did not respond I knew it was my duty to carry out my threat and complain. So that very next night I went and I told all, I left nothing out. Try as I might, though, the Reynoldses did not believe me. My protestations rang hard and long, deep into the night. Gradually the room filled and the entire Reynolds family were massed against me, they would not hear a bad word said against Xavier and even though I insisted on showing them the bite marks on my upper inner thighs they had the audacity to say that the marks I was showing them must have been recently inflicted. Imagine my surprise when Pa Reynolds himself even went and retrieved Xaviers false teeth from the steradent glass where they were soaking. Xavier blissfully unaware, slept the sleep of the innocent, - they didn't even rouse him to have him account for his actions. 
Reynolds senior then declared to the audience that as a hobby he had recently become interested in forensic pathology and went on to show the assembly that the teeth marks which would have been made by this set of dentures did not correspond to the bite scars on my thighs.
Xaviers set of teeth, he pointed out, had two mandibles on the upper right palate and small incisors whereas my visible inflictions did not reflect that.  Drawing himself up to his full height Pa Reynolds denounced me there and then to all and sundry as a liar.
 
Naturally I was undeterred.
 
In 1990 I tried again, Xavier by then was Chief of Staff, and spent much time in his private office. I distinctly recall cornering him. The film "Disclosure" had just come out and I was much influenced by the heroine Demi Moore who in the course of the movie managed to corrupt the young and well hung Michael Douglas. I reasoned that anything she could do I could do better". So I stormed unannounced into Xavier's office, and with the battle cry "tell me all the secrets, you bastard "slid across his highly polished desk much too quickly and almost decapitated him between my thighs.
It was some minutes before he recovered enough to phone for an ambulance. To his credit he never did involve the police.
 
And in this way he's rebuffed my perfectly innocent advances on several occasions,
 
Today though I say - nothing.
 
I don't like him (and I know you will find this hard to believe) he does not like me.
 
The antipathy is almost tangible. This silent hate cuts like a knife.
 
Despite the insult I that am not in the top rated suite, location wise this suits me OK.
My grand master plan relies upon me getting close, getting in behind my son in law's defenses.
 
I don't need to look down to now know that there have been improprieties upon my unresisting non compos-mentis body. Not only have I suffered the ignominy of being undressed for bed I find that the uncomfortable garment they have dressed in is one of Cassie's favoured outrageously tasseled flesh colored winceyette nighties.
 
I suspect Xavier himself as the perpetrator of this apalling liberty and I also know that he would have taken no little enjoyment from my discomfiture. Therefore I will ignore this outrage and not give him the slightest pleasure by even mentioning it.
 
I pick my words carefully.
 
"Cassie, Cassie, how is my darling baby Cassie?"
 
When later questioned, as I'm sure he will be he will only be able to report back to Mark that my first waking thoughts were for Cassie, not for myself.   
 
Now that we've got maternal concern out of the way, let's focus on me - far more interesting and pertinent to our quest, wouldn't you agree. But before we do that, let's at least pretend to listen to his reply. After all, it may be edifying - and useful later.
 
"She is awake and recovering but still poorly -as well as can be expected --- madam", he adds the perfunctory "madam" almost as an afterthought. 
 
"My baby, my poor baby, I must get straight back there, no matter my weakness nor the risk to my personal health"
 
To which he replies stiffly, formally .
"
v     "Mr Reynolds believes that you have been instrumental in that which caused  Mrs Reynolds condition
v     Mr Reynolds has instructed me that under no circumstances should you be allowed to visit Mrs Reynolds.
v     Further, I am to ensure that you do not leave here and that you await his return.
v     He has much to say to you when he does eventually get back here.
v     Naturally he is at his wife's bedside and I do not know when he is to return"
 
The tone of rebuke is only partially disguised. The "as rightly you should be" left unsaid by Xavier.
 
I sit myself up in the bed as tall as I can be without the winceyette nightgown beneath me disappearing into my dorsal cavity and declare in my most imperious voice
 
"I will not be a prisoner. I will not be your prisoner. I will not be ordered about like a common lackey"   
 
Even as I say it I sense that I lack conviction. Obviously hunger and sensory deprivation has left me weak. I crumple against the backboard of the bed and the fight drains from me. I survey my inner elbows and see no puncture marks of saline tubes. Had no one been  feeding me intravenously? Didn't anybody care?  The sting of hot tears fill my eyes.
After all he has the advantage over me. I have absolutely no idea how long I've been in this condition but judging from the complaints coming from my acid churning tummy I reason that I have been unfed and out of it for days.
 
I change my demeanour. More skill and art is needed.
 
 "Xavier" I demand softly, as I beckon him over.
 
Dammit he's as good at this game as I am.
Almost lovingly, he gently raises my prone body to a sitting position and then plumps the pillows behind me. He lowers me gently all the while his eyes looking dolefully into my eyes, never straying to my full bosom or my ample curves.
 "Xavier" I inquire softly  "how long have I been like this?"
 
With his reply my demeanor is shattered.
 
"A little less than two hours Madam" he responds.
 
Now all I want is blood.
 
" Two hours - two hours" I cry, my anger propelling me out of the bed with all the indignity I can muster and on to my surprised steady feet.
 
And I shout  "How the bloody hell did I get here ?"
 
"Mr Reynolds hired a minicab for you Madam. You arived in the back" he tells me with no hint of a smile.
 
This is terrible.  A minicab, a minicab, my blood boils, Visions of my unprotected body and my hair splayed fan like over some nasty polluted stained Nissan Sunny's tartan upholstery fills my head Nausea ,vertigo, humiliation , mixed emotions suffuse me.
Somebody will suffer, heads will roll, I will have my retribution. I took a solemn personal vow many years ago -and I'm sure Mark knew about this - that I would never ever again travel in a minicab.
 
I look for something to throw
 
On the bedside chair is a slim bound volume. "How to Be the Best Butler". I see Xavier Le Doute, his name as author on the cover.
 
My aim is true, and although he appears to be too slow moving, has turned his body and flicked my missile harmlessly away with his arm.
 
For a full second it feels as though it hasn't happened. I haven't thrown it, he hasn't repelled it.
He gives no indication that it ever took place.
 
I look around for something heavier. There is nothing - nothing throwable. I seethe silently and while I am seething he says.
 
"Perhaps madam would care to gather herself and avail herself presently of the facilities. I shall, of course be at your disposal."
 
He half smiles, makes a small bow, clicks his heels. Turning his back he is gone. 
 
Damn him, damn his eyes.
 
*********************************************
Now that I am alone, there is no time to lose
 
I have much to do
 
The mahogany wardrobe in the adjoining dressing room holds my day clothes
 
Everything that Ihad been wearing is now on hangers specially designed for its purpose and as I unpeel my sheer lingerie from it's expanding buckled hanger I silently curse Xavier and the obsessive attention to the tiniest details that pedantic French men like him have.
 
Even my stockings are on hangers, - tubular affairs which expand gently like miniature pneumatic limbs to ensure no pleats or creases.  I dress hurriedly into them without washing or looking in the mirror. Both chores would slow me down and young Reynolds could be back at any moment. I gather up my large clutch bag, the re-assuring bulk of my emergency pineapple gives it weight and me purpose.
 
Then summoning Xavier by pulling hard on the large tasselled bell pull, a rope hanging from the ceiling, I dash from the room to the kitchen which is in the main body of the house. Unless Xavier has a motor bike he won't be able to intercept me and deflect me from my purpose. I reason I have bought a few minutes of time, him checking this suite to see why I've requested him will give me the vital minutes.
 
I arrive breathless and panting some minutes later in the scullery preceding the kitchen.
The scullery maids, pretty young things are bent to their tasks, darning the potatoes or whatever it is they do. I need an ally in Mark Reynolds' downfall.
 
I wheeze at them, my large clutch bag windmilling from my hand. " Where's Rosa, ?" and they indicate the main kitchen behind them.
 
Spanish Rosa, squat, thick waisted, a moustachioed woman with a body like a short chimp , only more hairy, her skin where it shows is  like parched leather.She is dressed incongruously in a seductive french maids outfit, the mass of hairs on her legs poke unashamedly through the gaps in the fishnet tights that she insists on wearing. God only knows why but as repuilsive as she is, she has a great gift, she can cook like no one else on the planet.
Her food is ambrosia from the gods themselves. She is standing on a chair in order to stir a huge black cauldron on the oversized AGA. The pantomime season has come early, it seems
 
From my previous attempts to "poach" Rosa to be my staff cook I know that she is ridiculously loyal to Mark, I also know that discreetly she has never ever been told how dangerous I am. Consequently she does not fear or hate me. She is always my warmest welcome at Reynolds' manor.
 
 "Meeses Brookstein" she squeals and jumps down from her chair, the air under her copious skirt llifting the mini pelmet to reveal a black lacy suspender belt. Due to the long length of the fishnet and the profuion of bodily hair the stockings are not attached to the suspenders, the stockings are secured to her own personal velcro. The suspenders flap about crazily as she jiggles towards me.
For fear that you would never eat again I shan't describe further.
 
She pulls my face to hers and I get a double mediterranean welcome kiss on both face cheeks and in so doing a taste of her latest recipe.
 
When I am released, she propels me up onto her chair and almost head first into the cauldron , "looooooook , taste", she beseeches me. Against my will, in a ninja movement she is up on the chair with me, toe to toe like lovers, she spins around and somehow her giant wooden spoon is held against my lips. From the other end of the spoon she is blowing the contents in the spoons cup to cool them before tipping gently and delicately so that I taste. I taste and it is heavenly.
 
It is so delicious it could even mask the taste of pentothal. I'm relying on it.
 
"Rosa," I tell her "I am ill"
 
"No madam, Mrs Reynolds, she  is ill" Rosa responds vigorously
 
Gently and with some gravitas I tell her "I know Rosa but I am more ill, much more ill"
 
"You must go now, right this moment and get me my medicine"
 
From the depths of my clutch bag I produce a book of blank prescriptions previously signed by a doctor who of course had no resistance to my charms. Like most men he was putty in my hands. I like to think of this pad as my own "do it yourself" blank cheque book for my personal narcotics.
 
I scrawl unintelligibly. Pharmacists are specially trained to read this type of authentic scribble and will unquestioningly dispense.
 
My breathing and pulse rate have returned to normal by now and I am in control.
 
Rosa will do my bidding, the die is cast.
 
"Be back in forty minutes." I command her
 
I force cash on her as she scrambles into her pink leather prostitutes greatcoat which is several sizes too small for her, the shoulders stick at her elbows, the sleeve ends flap over her hands like flippers.Then ape like, she heads for the garage, downstairs of the kitchen. From the scullery window I see her clamber aboard her vespa motor scooter eclipsing the little machine from view with her huge hairy body and roar off at a rate of knots. From the rear and from a distance it looks as if she is surfing at speed on a motorised fanny twat. In her haste she has even forgotten her pink crash helmet which I know is emblazoned with the legend " I give great head" across its' back.  Such was her rush. Such was her unremitting devotion to me.
 
With the buzz of a job well done I make my way back to my room to meet mine host designate, the unflappable Xavier.
 
I am not disappointed, he is there and when I saunter lightly back, I can see that he is busy arranging my unmade bed back into it's proper order.
 
Although I have not announced my presecence, intrinsically he knows I'm there
 
He says without rotating  -as if my request for him was just seconds ago.
 
"You rang, madam"
 
I know better than to think he's losing his grasp of time. He is after all just playing the game and not letting on that he knows I've bolted from this room.
 
" Ah, yes, Xavier, " and then as if it's the most natural question in the world "pineapples, do you have any?"
 
He's not at all phased, " I shall attend to it myself and check presently, madam "
 
Once more, he goes through his ritual and exits the room.
 
After a few seconds I consider pulling the bell and bringing him back just out of devilment.
 
But you know me, I am too kind. Kindness itself. I would only do a mean trick like that if I was bored.
 
I'm not bored, I have affairs of state to attend to.
 
Join me in the blue room. The suite that I should have re-awoken in, as befits my station.
I take a circuitous route to get there. A more leisurely pace, in the corridors leading to the west wing I carry my large black clutch bag over my head. With the zip closed and my hands underneath I am invisible to the closed circuit television cameras.
 
I meet staff on the way and send them on ridiculous petty errands. Here's a life tip for free as I am feeling generous. If you task people with things you know that they won't do, they will never admit that you asked them to do it and that they didn't. It's a trade off that helps my cloak of invisibility.
 
"Quid pro quo, Clarice" as Hannibal Lechter would say.
 
Don't get me wrong, I liked Hannibal but I was never convinced. I always felt that he lacked my winners streak.
 
Propriety exacts that no CCTV would pervade the beauty, integrity or level of complete privacy of the blue suite and when I get there I relax. As I switch the huge plasma TV on that covers one wall  to mask the sounds of my endeavour I see the ever youthful Carol Vorderman assisting Richard Whiteley on the Channel 4 Word Game "Countdown".
She looks wonderful, as if her 50 year old head has been transplanted onto the body of a 20 year old nymph. We share the same dietoxician, Carol and me, but I make him come more.
 
So what am I up to?
 
You ask. Five foot four and a half - I answer. No, really. OK we're making a Red Spanish Swahili drink especially for Mark. Why am I being so generous to the man who imprisons and kidnaps me a la minicab? Because, my dears, a swahili is a pentothal laced refreshing drink. But what will it do when it does?
 
It relaxes, that's why you often hear of "pentothal" being billed as the truth drug, introduced to the bloodstream in food and drink it shuts down the internal censor based at the back of the brain in the right temporal cerebellum. Under the alfluence of this particular incohol people will say and do the strangest things. Their innermost most secret desires become their words and their actions.
 
We shall have fun, I promise.
 
Then you go on to ask - "but why the pineapple?"
 
Good Question.
 
Do you have time for a little science history education?
 
You do - great. Here goes:-
 
You have probably eaten a pineapple in one form or another at least once during your lifetime.
 
They are a versatile fruit than can be eaten raw, sauteed, or baked. Unlike bananas, oranges, or grapes, fresh pineapples cannot be used in gelatin mixtures. The reason for this is that pineapples contain an enzyme that breaks down the proteins in the gelatin.
Pineapples contain Vitamins A and C, but most importantly, they are a great source of an enzyme called Bromelain. Bromelain helps the body's digestive system and it also has anti-inflammatory properties as well. It has been used to treat a number of medical problems, including heart disease, arthritis, and upper respiratory infections. When taken with antibiotics and chemotherapy drugs, Bromelain has been found to increase the actions of these drugs. This remarkable enzyme is found in all types of pineapples.
There are basically five different kinds of pineapple: the Kona Sugarloaf, the Natal Queen, the Perambuco, the Red Spanish, and the Smooth Cayenne. The first type of pineapple is the Kona Sugarloaf is a larger variety, usually weighing in around five pounds each
My favourite as a weapon is The Smooth Cayenne grown in Hawaii. It is the most accessible variety of pineapple and it is most often found in grocery stores. The ones I like are between fifteen and twenty pounds in weight, but, of course, cause shipping problems which is why I have them flown in instead. The smooth Cayenne has a low centre of gravity and is heavier compared with beef steak as it has a more dense molecular structure. It has a hard abrasive skin. This makes it perfect for either wielding or throwing. Tar can be made to stick to it very well to augment it's  attacking properties.
 
The luxuriously appointed kitchen has every gadget you could imagine. Matching chromium toasters, breadmakers, popcorn machines, dispensers, spoon tidies and even a microwave goes crashing to the floor as I make room on the worksurface to work. The blender/liquidiser machine is needed and mercifully I spare its life. It's winking red eye thanks me.
 
I heave my clutch bag up on to the worksurface and unload my precious cargo.
 
The solitary Perambucco green tinged aromatic pineapple looks up at me trustingly. From the items spilled from my bag I get my knife. With four practiced strokes I remove the green shoot cluster, and quarter the fruit from top to bottom. I separate the flesh from the skin of the quarters, a little like making ones own miniature canoe. I put the green husk back in my bag to clone later at home, and nudge the discarded peeled skin onto the floor with my elbow.
 
Whistling a Dusty Springfield song that's just come back into pop favour, I engage the blender and blend/liquidise - "walking back to happiness ye eah- oh yee -eah- " in my head.
 
I sometimes think that I am never happier than when I'm alone with my pineapples. Pinapples don't answer back or scheme against you or get married to somebody else or refuse to leave their wives or change their wills when you've gone to a lot of trouble to get what is only your fair share after all.
 
From the holes in the worksurface and wall adjoining I see that I have absent-mindedly run amok with my knife. Still, no matter, Mark can make a mess when he comes to my house, - if he likes.
 
Now all I need is the Pentothal and an attractive pair of tumblers, mine for pinapple with swahili, Marks glass will be dusted with pentothal for the comedy version.
 
Returning to the kitchen I see that Rosa has returned and my oh my, what a commotion. My filled prescription bottle is on a scrubbed wooden worksurface, behind which Rosa has her back to me. She is screaming in spantonese at her staff. I gather up the tiny phial and listen in just in case I'm asked to adjudicate.
 
She, Rosa  is roundly  berating her staff. Where was the lady guest who had promised to watch the stove, the ill lady? She wants to know. And if there was nobody watching the AGA, how come nobody knew, heard or smelt the cassoulet boiling over and ruining. She's agitated, throwing her arms around. The two scullery maids, simple souls that they are, are also talking fast and peopling their conversation with hand movements. They are totally immersed in defending themselves to Rosa. They don't know any ill woman, they say.
 
All they know is that a lady guest who appeared perfectly healthy had summoned each of them in turn from their station in the kitchen and sent them on separate pointless time consuming tasks, from which they had only just returned.
 
From the gist of Rosa's tirade I surmise that the meal has been ruined, the cauldron has boiled over. The AGA is ruined, the cauldron beyond repair. She is resorting to plan Z, opening tins of corned beef for the household luncheon. The spewing stream of invective against the nubile twins continues to surge from her lips, all the whilst she is throwing together the makings of a plain green salad.
 
I muse momentarily on who the mystery lady that they referred to could be, I feel sure that with all my to-ing and fro-ing down the corridors I would have seen her as well. I was under the impression that I was the only guest at Chez Reynolds.
 
You know what? I reckon those two spiteful girls invented her and made the whole thing up.
 
**************
 
 
Mark is returned. I see his car pull up. He is alone. No Cassie. He looks disconsolate, tired and drawn. In need of a boost. My scintillating company, I'm sure, will take his mind off his worries and a Pinapple swahili or two should remove his inhibitions.
 
After a while of waiting in the drawing room in the main body of the house I realise that Mark has gone to his own private quarters, rather than be sociable and a genial host to me.
 
So be it.
 
If I'm to visit Mark in his chambers I'm going to need a decanter rather than carry the blender through the estate so off I trudge to the kitchen.
 
Calm is restored there, Rosa up on her chair presiding over two full woks on the rear of the great stove. The damaged cauldron overflowing with soapy water is in the corner of the room like a naughty child.
 
Something has happened to upset Rosa and she is telling me angrily about it in Spantonese complete with much gesticulation and arm waving. The maids are joining in, one is in my face telling me that the hall clock in the main residence is correct when compared with the clocking in machine in the east stables, a mile and a half away, while the other is complaining that she was not able to find a shop in the local town which sells Heinz'  brand alphabetty spaghetti letters.
 
I do not understand at all what any of this has to do with me. My advice would be that they should keep their petty squabbles below stairs and OUT OF MY FACE. I tell them so loudly in a voice which brooks no misunderstanding.    
 
Searching, I find the cupboard of decanters and choose a pretty crystal pot for my purpose.
 
Little trooper that I am, I march back with it to the blue room, pour my pulpy concoction into the decanter, gather up glass A and glass B, and thus laden head for Marks main hall two storeys above careful not to spill too much on the carpet and stairs and walls.
 
The door to Marks' private enclave is invitingly open and  I march purposefully through the vestibule. The inner sanctum is closed but I can hear dialogue when I place my ear to the door and listen hard.
 
He is updating Xavier with Cassies' condition and his prescription for the arrangements that will need to be in place when she returns. I may have got it wrong but I hear my name and a slightly negative reference.
 
Nonetheless I push the door open with my foot and with my best brightest smile advance upon the duo who stare back horrified almost as if they had been interrupted by an unwelcome prescence.
 
"Don't you ever bloody knock" Reynolds Junior explodes.
 
What a wag. Such a jolly jape. I like that type of sense of humour in a man. I'm sure it's wasted on Cassie. Muscular control too, he's waggling that little blood vessel in his forehead just to amuse me.
 
"Don't mind me, chaps" I quip bravely, joining in the fun.
 
"Tell me all about Cassie, my darling baby girl"
 
Xavier is playing the straight man in this scene, letting Mark and me get all the laughs, it seems.
 
Mark seems desirous of my company. Turning to Xavier, he says "Xavier, will you excuse us, I need to be alone with my mother in law."
 
That's more like it . Boo yacka. Respect.
 
Xavier goes through the half bow click heels routine and exits leaving me heart pounding and Mark, judging by his red face, most excited as well, alone in each others company.
 
I delicately dip and unload my cargo on to velvet doilies on the reproduction long low inlaid table.
 
Mark, obviously overcome with my beauty and radiance,is having difficulty getting his words out.
 
"There, there," I coo " you've had a hard day" and bending towards and before him so that he has a great view of my cleavage as I do it, I slowly and seductively pour both of our first drinks.      
 
As I pour I note his glass is perfectly "dusted" and congratulate myself.
 
The gloopy mixture (specific gravity 1081 over water ) slightly weightier than milk but not as much as yoghurt is a perfect foil for the white powder and mixes in invisibly.
 
Taking my seat once more I face him, I cross my legs slowly a la Sharon Stone but his eyes don't leave my face.
 
Whilst I am contemplating my opening sortie he takes two sips, then a gulp, my guestimate about 27cc so far and looking over his shoulder at the grandmother clock which annoyingly and authenticlly has no second hands, I start to calculate Marks body mass, rate of inception and time remaining for effect.
I count seconds off in my head, one shag you, two shag you, three shag you et cetera.
 
Let's let him talk.
 
" Diane, " he begins" we've never been close, have we?"
 
"Well" I laugh, I'm enjoying this, "I never did change your nappies if that's what you mean, but then again you were about fourteen years old when we met. People would have talked"
 
He chews his lip,before picking his next words carefully. Dark rings look ghastly under his young normally piercing blue eyes.
 
Volume slightly louder, but still perfectly controlled. "You know perfectly well what I mean, Diane" this accompanied by two gulps, 38 shag you seconds gone and counting.
 
Perhaps 50cc drunk up so far. Inside my head I'm saying "Come on Mark, take your medicine, you know it's good for you."
 
"Perhaps you'd better explain" I audibly venture
 
 
55 shag yous' gone. Delightful anticipation in the pit of my stomach.
 
"Diane, I'll come straight to the point"
 
My mental imagery causes a small smile to play around my lips.
 
"Yes do Mark do" I urge him. I resist the urge to say my breath is coming in short pants. Oh no, I said that, didn't I?
 
"Your daughter is different than you"
 
I nod. I can only agree.
 
"More delicate"
 
Well, that's not a word I would use. Inferior would be my mot de choisir.
 
"More honest"
 
Now hold on a cotton picking moment. But after consideration I can see where he's going with this. I've always had a problem with the word honest. I've always inter-related it with the word stupid. In fact, in my personal thesaurus you could replace the one word with the other. Ergo, Cassies is honest therefore she stupid. OK Mark "Do go on" I tell him
 
3 shag you minutes have gone by.
 
"All she's ever wanted is happiness. She just wants everyone to be happy."
 
This is like a red rag to a bull as far as I am concerned. Happy, happy, what about my happiness? if Cassie wants me to be happy,which I must say that I do very much doubt, then why is she, the stupid bitch, having everything in her life that I ever wanted for myself. Why, Why?
The red mist descends and my darker side takes hold.
 
I drop my bombshell.
 
"Did she tell you about her French lover boy? He made her very happy. Was she honest about that ? "
 
I watch his jaws slacken and see him sink into the chair, his uncertainty and the pentothal, a double whammy makes the boy inside this man become visible.
 
Duplicity is now beyond him. He answers my questions with uncensored honest candour.
 
"Xavier did tell me that his men removed an injured foreigner from Cassies apartment. Xavier has told me there is no connection between Cassie, her condition and him."
 
" Then Xavier has lied to you. Call him now and question him again. Better still, I'll ask the questions."
 
Mark, now under the hold of the narcotic, has no resistance, no energy either, not even the strength to get out of the chair.
 
Helpfully, I pull the tasseled rope summoner for him, and then lovingly hold the cut crystal glass to his lips as he takes more of my wicked concoction in.
 
Presently Xavier arrives from where-ever he's been watching us on CCTV. I still mentally pictured him though with his ear on the door-frame as our scene unfolded, despite all his new world surveillance technology.
 
"You rang for me, sir" He asks formally.
 
Mark is in no condition to get his words out  but ( 9 minutes 45shag you seconds in) has sufficient wherewithal to take in Xaviers answers.
 
I answer instead "He did ring for you. Xavier, sit down" I command him. Power surges within me. It feels sooooooo good. 
 
"I prefer to stand, madam"
 
 "Stand then, Xavier, if that be your wish"
 
I stretch the truth slightly. "Mr Reynolds has asked me to interview you regarding the state of affairs in my daughters home just prior to her consignment to the hospital."
 
Just for a split second, he seems to flinch. The chink in his armour is just starting to show. He looks hard at Mark for guidance and re-assurance, - none is forthcoming.
 
"Perhaps, I will sit down, Madam"
 
I wait while his aged brittle femurs and tibias separate enough to allow the rotation of his pelvic girdle and eventually he sits. I do feel sorry for the popes' attendants in Rome. They must have to go through this pantomine 24 /7.
 
"Xavier, perhaps you will be good enough to tell Mr Reynolds and myself what you found in Mrs Reynold undergarments."
 
" I don't know what you mean" he starts,
 
"You know perfectly well what I mean"
 
He is reddening and on the rack. A bead of perspiration is appearing on his forehead.
 
" I would prefer to discuss this only with Mr Reynolds" he retorts.
 
"And Mr Reynolds" I volley back, cruelly and crushingly " says that you must reveal all here and now"
 
For good measure I throw in "And this time, don't you dare lie to him".
 
 Mark makes the effort to nod in his direction and Xavier begins.
 
"There was nothing in or on Mrs Reynolds underslip." He replies truthfully
 
I wait. Mark waits. Xavier waits. We all wait
 
The 18 minutes, 36 shag you's hang in the air heavily.
 
"And" I prompt him.
 
Miserably " There was nothing at all of concern in Mrs Reynold's brassiere"
 
This is delicious.
 
Out of the corner of my eye I see that Mark is starting to perk up. The interesting thing about the effects of Pentothal when mixed with sodium is that for the first 15 minutes of correct dosage it relaxes both body and mind, after that just the internal dialogue censor for approximately 45 minutes Otherwise he won't be able to get an erection later, will he?
 
 "Xavier, we are grown ups, you know as well as we do that we are only interested in talking about the underpants that my daughter was wearing." I say, helpfully
 
I've been focused on the butler but when I turn to Mark I see that he has obligingly drained his glass. The effects of Sodium Pentothal fade within 24 hours and are imperceptible in blood and swab tests.
 
Most relevantly though semen, particularly our glop of French spunk isn't going to be diappeared away nicely. Not now, not ever.
 
"There was semen in and on Mrs Reynolds and her intimate attire, Sir" He says, staring unhappily at his feet. Unfortunately for Xavier the ground has not opened up.
 
From the expression on Marks face my narcotic spend has been well invested. He is beside himself. If you ever wondered what the expression actually meant then this would be the perfect example. I almost refill glasses for the two Marks ha, ha.
 
Xavier, meanwhile has struggled to his feet "May I be excused Sir, Madam" he asks in a tortured voice.
 
Mark nods his assent.  Me, I was also asked - wasn't I?, respond. "No, Xavier, you can stay here until we're bloody well finished with you"
 
He takes his seat again, this time even more slowly. I start checking off time in my head once more. We are now in the second time quartile of four, I have to make every second, every word count.
 
"Xavier, what nationality are you?" I ask, I have a point in doing this.
 
"Madam, I am a nationalised British, " he gathers himself up and starts to puff up his old chest.
 
"Ah, but originally" I probe.
 
"You know very well that I am, and that my forefathers are from the Dordogne in France"
 
 "France eh?" I let the word ring in the air before delicately inquiring.
 
"And Mrs Reynolds lover, Xavier, where would you say that he was from?"
 
"France, Madam"
 
"So you are from France Xavier, and  this man, if we can call anyone who wantonly despoils my daughter and besmirches the good name of mine and Mr Reynolds' family, is also a Frenchman."
 
"Yes Madam" in a small voice.
 
"Xavier, and I ask you to answer this as honestly as someone who has been pulling the wool over my sons' eyes for god knows how long -"
 
At this, the old butler is up on his feet instantly, belying his age. He appeals earnestly , beseechingly to Mark.
 
" I would never have, I have never" I've broken him, he's babbling, a mixture of French and English uncontrollably cascade from his bloodless lips. A dark ring of sweat appears almost as if by magic at the back of his white stiff collar.
 
The French word jamais, never, said over and over again as he tries in vain to repair the damage of his fall from grace in marks opinion.
 
He's going to have to be very jamais to get out of this trap that I have set.
 
Mark, recovered in voice, his manly adrenaline pumping. "Monsieur Le Doute," he tells him formally " I never want to have to set eyes on you again, leave this room, leave my employ"
"Now, right now"
 
This is fantastic, we're cooking, cooking with gas.
 
Still I won't let Xavier off of the griddle,
 
"Xavier ,sit" I command. He ignores me,but I see the biggie, the blood supply to the vein in his neck is visibly throbbing. He continues to stand.
 
I drive the final nail into his virtual coffin.
 
"And how exactly were you, Xavier, and this man who has cuckolded my fine young upstanding son in law related. Is this how your family behaves? Or was he a French stranger gathered into your sordid plans -  did you pay him -in your mad scheme to get even with the family that have employed your sorry hide and been so good to you for all these years? Is this the way that you repay all the kindnesses and shelter that this family has afforded you".
 
He howls unintelligibly. Mark is not even listening now, his head in his hands, he is weeping that such a day like this could descend upon him. My heart goes out to him but he had to know the truth. Well, my truth anyway.
 
"Xavier, " I tell him, "It would be best for you, best for us all if you go, go now"
 
Something approaching sympathy washes over me as the broken old man shambles out.
 
But it's not sympathy. As soon as he's gone, I realise it's not sympathy but another unfamiliar one.
Off of my palette of emotions. It's happiness, "hello happpiness". "Hello, Mrs Brookstein," ever polite, it answers.
 
Me and happiness contemplate Mark. He looks for all the world as if he has just received a series of body blows. Those people with their "sticks and stones" routine couldn't have been more wrong. They know Jack, Jack shit. Words do hurt and I choose mine carefully, as I re-seat myself opposite my stricken son in law and watch a grown man cry.
 
" Mark, " I start. "Things may look black now, but you'll get over this. You're a big man" I hope I'm right, my internal mental imagery working overtime ha ha.
 
His nose is running. He leaves it unattended. " I never realised. " "All this time" he says wretchedly.
 
"Mark" I say kindly, "you're younger than me, (though only slightly). It's a hard world, people that you trust have lied to you, lied to you for years. My own daughter that you've thought so true, all this time has had for all we know,a succession of lovers.Well endowed negroes right the way through to Tasmanian lumberjacks with steel cables for muscles - for all we know. So many lovers while you've been working here at home and away."
 
For love of you Mark, my love of you and I've loved you since I first set eyes on you I've kept my silence till now.
You've thought me arch and calculating (36 minutes 40 shag you seconds count off in my head) but in this crazy mixed up world that we live in those that seem good are often bad, and those that you might have wrongly thought of as bad are often good."pointing to myself "Often very, very good. " I conclude. I am in danger of, and do not want to over egg this particular pudding.
 
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Mark" Imperceptibly he nods. The pentothal has moved the goalposts, re-arranged all the furniture in his head. Me the enemy mother in law, I  have just become his very best friend. And hopefully his mate ha, ha.
 
Seeing that Mark needs tissues to recover himself I summon the butler with the bell pull but after an interminably long time to 49 minutes 17 shag yous I realise that we no longer have a butler. Well -not one that takes his responsibilities seriously-anyway. Tssk, you just can't get the staff these days.
 
I exit the room and return with tissues that I have found in an en-suite bathroom down the corridor.
 
I have 7 minutes and 13 seconds of optimal pentothal time to do the deed.
 
Mark takes the tissues and is looking trustingly to me for guidance, another quite useful effect of this drug.He mops his "T" zone and blows his nose loudly.
 
"Mark, we've wasted so much time already. There is only one way that you and I can show Cassie that whatever she can do to you that we two can right this wrong, whatever she did you and I, we can do better" and without further ado and uncaring of the video that will be recording us which must be running unattended in a distant room, I lead Mark by  his unresisting hand to the large overstuffed settee.
 
In a practised way I disrobe us both and arouse him. Before long my throbbing hips have unloaded him of between 57 and 70 millilitres (in my humble estimate) of prime Reynolds pram filler but then again who's counting ho ho.
 
59 minutes 14 shag you seconds the deed is down.
 
I dress and leave him to his own sweet slumbers. His clothes are scattered to the four corners of the room. Kissing him on the lips (something I do not normally do and reserve only for people I might see again) I gather up my Decanter and empty glasses. Checking for spills, there are none, I exit the room to go, incubate.