Coquette

  COQUETTE

  A Phaze Fury HeatSheet by

  N

  Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 1-59426-956-4 Coquette © 2006 by N Translated by Nelli Rees

  All rights reserved under Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. the International and Pan-American

  Cover art © 2006 by Kathryn Lively

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  S ally loved George, she never doubted that, but... Wouldn't it be nice, she thought, if, for just a moment, he stopped being so relentless, stopped making a full frontal assault on every problem that confronted him. Sally Smith sighed, switched the handset to her left ear and, with a patience honed through twenty years of increasingly arid marriage, listened to her husband lecture her as others would a delinquent child.

  "And Laura? What's Laura doing? She will be at the bloody party, won't she?" George Smith asked tetchily.

  In the background Sally could hear the drone of the Jaguar's engine. George had obviously squeezed the call in between speaking engagements. "I've spoken to her and she says she'll be here."

  "I should bloody well think she will! My office says that just about all of the names you invited will be attending, so it's essential that our own daughter isn't registered as a no-show. The reptiles would bloody love that: all of the young movers and shakers find time to attend this bloody Clean-Up Campaign launch party but Laura's amongst the missing-in-action. Not good PR-wise."

  Great , thought Sally, you haven't seen your daughter for the thick end of a month and all you can think about is her publicity value. "I even thought I'd ask Laura to sing..." "Now that is a good idea. Apparently the PM's lad Guy caught one of her gigs in Scunthorpe or some similar hellhole and came away mouthing platitudes. And the PM's potty about jazz so it can't do any harm."

  "Good, I'm pleased you approve. Laura needs to organise an accompanist so I'll ring and have her sort that out." She paused for a moment gathering her courage. "Laura's bringing someone with her. A friend of hers, a boyfriend," she tried to deliver the news in a casual, matter-of-fact tone, but it made no difference.

  "Boyfriend? I didn't know Laura had a boyfriend." The rising inflection in George Smith's voice, indicating his surprise, riled Sally. Did he believe his daughter to be so monumentally inadequate as to be incapable of ever having a boyfriend? Possibly he was affronted that Laura should have the temerity to select a mate who hadn't been previously vetted by him. "Who is he?" he asked suspiciously.

  "I don't know. I've not met him. He's called Viktor something or other. Apparently he's a filmmaker or some such from Leeds. Laura met him through university. He owns a jazz club in the town. I understand Laura's sung there a few times."

  A groan from George Smith, this didn't seem like good news. He'd thought Laura's infatuation with jazz was on the wane. The odd concert in support of his political ambitions was one thing, singing in a club was quite another.

  Sally carried on, trying to be as upbeat as possible, "Apparently he's something of a patron of the underground art world in the North. He even lectures on the work of Sergei Eisenstein." There was no reply, so Sally added, "Eisenstein was a pioneering Russian..."

  "I know who bloody Eisenstein was. Just because I didn't enjoy a private education doesn't make me a complete philistine," George snapped, before lapsing back into silence. Sally heard paper being shuffled, George obviously dealing with something important whilst he was talking with her—well, something more important than his wife and his daughter anyway. "Really, Sally, you're impossible. We can't have someone we don't know just arriving. Think of the security, think of the publicity..." The shuffling of paper stopped. "I mean what sort of person is he? Is he presentable? Is he housetrained?"

  "Well...I don't really know. According to Laura he's twenty-five ish and a bit bohemian. He's quite a successful businessman from what I can make out." She steeled herself, "Oh...and it would seem that he's something of a Goth."

  There was ominous silence as George Smith absorbed this information. "And what's a Goth when it's at home?"

  "Well, as far as I can establish, it's a fashion cult that involves dressing in black and adopting faux-Satanic attitudes."

  There was no pause this time. "Absolutely not fucking acceptable," George's voice hardened. "Fuck me gently, the press'll orgasm; daughter of a Minister turning up at a party to launch the government's anti-drugs campaign arm-in-arm with the Prince of Fucking Darkness. Look, get on the phone to Laura and tell her that under no circumstances is she to bring this Goth creature within two hundred fucking miles of that party. Fucking hell...I don't mind you inviting a few iffy twenty-somethings to your bash to provide a fashionable flavouring, but I've got a feeling that some fucker arriving wearing horns and carrying a pitchfork might be too hot even for you to handle."

  Sally drew a deep breath. "I really do think you might be overreacting a tad. Laura's a sensible girl, I'm sure she'll communicate the need to be...respectful to Viktor. Anyway, I think it's going to be difficult to dissuade her from bringing him. Laura's adamant, either she comes with this chap or she doesn't come at all. I think she's quite smitten."

  "Smitten?" sneered her husband. "She can't be smitten, he's..." He trailed off, lost in thought. "He's what?" prompted Sally. "Bad fucking news that's what he is. He's older than her, for a start. Christ, she's only just eighteen. And he's certainly not fucking suitable. I didn't spend a fortune on her education to have her take up with the fucking anti-Christ."

  "Well, suitable or not, George, I either phone her up and tell her the boy's verboten and she turns around and goes back to Leeds, or we let her bring the boy and risk the press. It's your call, darling." Sally swore she could hear the scowl forming on her husband's face, his brow furrowing as he weighed up the pros and cons, doing a rapid risk/benefit analysis, being the politician.

  As George Smith saw it the risks were obvious—Laura's boyfriend could be a complete undesirable, an embarrassment. Not a great risk—Laura was intelligent and still depended on her father's allowance—but a risk nevertheless. Thank God there was to be no television covering the party, but the reptiles and the paparazzi would be out in force and that was a worry. On the other hand, this little anti-drugs bash was important to him. Although ostensibly sponsored by his wife, in reality it was a carefully contrived device to have George Smith seen with various assorted pop stars, models, actors and sports icons. It was one great big youth-orientated photo opportunity.

  Analysis complete, George snarled his conclusion to his wife, "That little bitch knows how important this is for me. She's got me over a fucking barrel. Very well, have you had this...this...Goth checked out?"

  "No can do. Laura said she wasn't disclosing any information about him because she didn't want the Special Branch crawling all over him like they did her last boyfriend. I don't even know his last name."

  There was silence from the other end of the phone. Then, "Fuck it. Okay, he can come but please let our darling daughter know if she makes a mess of this she can forget her allowance for some considerable time. I am really not fucking happy." The phone went dead. * * * * "Just to warn you," Natasha said quietly in a too-calm voice, "but the press have gone into a feeding-frenzy about Laura...and her friend. I think there might be a few column
inches tomorrow."

  "But that's only to be..." The words died in Sally Smith's throat as she saw her daughter lizarding through the crowded room towards her, accompanied by a man she could only assume to be the boyfriend. "Oh, God," she murmured as she saw her daughter's cropped, razored hair, but when she absorbed the short, tight PVC skirt, bondage boots, mesh stockings and a top that seemed to be in imminent danger of falling open, her initial shock turned to panic. No wonder the press were getting excited; tomorrow's front page was assured. Well, Sally decided ruefully, George's PR people might have wanted a younger element in the crowd, but this was going to cause ructions. She just hoped to heaven that her husband's temper would hold when he saw Laura; but then she felt very much the same way about the single button that was keeping her daughter's top together.

  "Mummy, may I introduce Viktor Lazarev, a friend of mine?" With some trepidation Sally Smith took the elegant, slim hand that was proffered. It belonged to the saturnine man who had arrived with her daughter. The man looked for all the world like the devil incarnate. His long, black hair was swept back from his hard face and his small, thin body was clad in a tight, sharply-cut suit made of electric blue silk. Arrogantly sporting a slim pair of sunglasses, he had obviously chosen to ignore the "Evening Dress" imperative on the invitation card.

  "Delighted to meet you...Mr Lazarev." Her hand was squeezed and gently shaken by his dry fingers.

  "Please, call me Viktor," came the heavily accented reply. The man smiled at her alarmingly, it was like being confronted by a genial shark.

  "From your name and your accent I understand that you're not from the UK."

  "You are quite correct, I am a foreigner. I am a Russian, a Moscovite to be exact. My father sent me and my two younger brothers to England ten years ago to finish our education and to improve our English." The man's voice was extremely quiet and that, coupled with the accent, meant that Sally Smith had difficulty in making out what he was saying against the hubbub of the room. She wondered if it was a deliberate affectation—rather than shouting to attract attention, he did the opposite. He had also held onto her hand for a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. This was one to watch, she decided; this one had something of the predator about him.

  It seemed that Laura also thought her boyfriend's attentions to her mother were extending beyond that which was strictly allowable: she moved closer to her boyfriend and took his arm in a possessive sort of way, "Viktor runs BeBop City, one of the largest jazz clubs in the North of England. They've been very supportive of your 'Clean Up' initiative. He's also one of the most important of the new-wave film directors...a real genius."

  "No, no," interrupted Lazarev, laughing, "merely a journeyman. I leave geniusto others."

  Years of practice enabled Sally Smith to keep a bland smile on her face whilst inside her calm demeanour was quickly unravelling. She truly didn't know what to say, terrifying images swam through her mind. Her daughter looked like a prostitute and the man she was with looked like Satan's favourite nephew. George was going to go ballistic. "I'm sure you are being too modest...Viktor. George and I are always pleased to have as many supporters from the arts as possible at these events. It is a private initiative, after all, designed to raise the awareness of the dangers of drug use amongst the young."

  Lazarev smiled and bobbed his head. "I'm delighted to offer my support. Perhaps, when you are in Leeds next, I might entertain you at the club. Perhaps you could catch one of Laura's gigs. She is a marvellously talented singer."

  "Of course..." Sally replied automatically, only to be interrupted by Lazarev. "I think your PR person is trying to get your attention." An agitated Natasha had sidled up behind Sally. "Sally, I was wondering if I might borrow Laura and her...friend. The press are demanding an interview and some posed shots."

  Laura laughed. "No, no interviews. Viktor and I are here just as Mummy's guests," she reached over and warmly patted Lazarev's hand, something which Sally Smith found extremely disconcerting, "I want to keep a low profile."

  Sally Smith almost choked on her drink. If this was the cow's idea of keeping a low profile God only knew what she'd wear if she wanted to be noticed. Her mind raced, all the questions that she felt balanced on the tip of her tongue she knew were un-askable. Like: was her daughter sleeping with this man? Probably, Sally decided, from the look in Laura's eyes she'd fuck him here and now right in the middle of the hall if he asked. Was this Lazarev respectable (again probably not, from the way he'd inventoried her body Sally suspected he was an evil, evil man); and, most importantly, what on earth had happened to Laura in the few months since she'd been up in Leeds? How had she permitted this man to worm his way into her life? Didn't she realise that this Viktor Lazarev was an utterly unsuitable friend?

  Filmmaker indeed. Sally had a growing suspicion as to the type of films Lazarev would be involved in. Films, she mused, that were unlikely to be featured on the Disney Channel.

  She felt Lazarev gaze at her, his stare hovering for an instant on the buds of her nipples as they pressed against the thin, slick fabric of her top. Annoyed, she raised her eyes to his, challenging him, but he didn't flinch even for unspoken rebuke.

  "That's a beautiful always loved Givenchy." Lazarev looked boldly into Sally Smith's eyes and appeared somewhat taken aback by the steel he found in them.

  "Thank you," said Sally, trying to put as much ice in her voice as she was able, but at the same time she was impressed that he'd identified the designer.

  Watching the exchange, Laura seemed similarly unimpressed by the way Lazarev was looking at her mother. "Tell Mummy about the film you're working on, Viktor," she demanded, trying to edge back into the conversation.

  "It's a small piece—a short—to be called RazorTime. It deals with the concept that two actions, identical except that they take place at different times and places, can be either socially acceptable or can be denigrated by society depending on their time and place." Sally raised an eyebrow to signal her incomprehension. "For example," Lazarev explained, "if I were to reach out now and caress your breast," a gasp from Laura, "you would be affronted and I would be rebuked by Laura for my crass behaviour. But," and here Lazarev smiled, "if we were lovers, alone in our bedroom, such an action would be welcomed, would it not? Same action, different context, different reaction."

  "Interesting," It was all Sally could bring herself to say as trickles of fear slid down her spine. Laura might have gone pink with embarrassment, but Sally imagined she had gone pale with fury.

  The conversation ground to a halt, Sally torn between the desire to put as much distance between herself and Lazarev, and the desire to stay as protectively close to Laura as she was able.

  "Will I have an opportunity to meet your husband, Mrs Smith?" asked Lazarev.

  "Indeed you will," George Smith said simply, delighted that he had blindsided them.

  Barely able to disguise her surprise and nervousness, Laura leant forward and kissed her father on his cheeks. "How are you, Daddy?"

  a moment, obviously indifferent to her outfit you're wearing," he purred, "I've A broad, self-satisfied smile crossed the man's face, "Very well,

  Laura, very well indeed. I'm delighted you could join us." He turned to Lazarev, "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

  "Sorry, Daddy, this is Viktor Lazarev, a friend of mine from Leeds."

  George Smith smiled a wry smile and carefully shook Lazarev's hand.

  After the exchange of a few anodyne pleasantries, George Smith looked pointedly at his daughter's outfit. "It would seem that the fact that this is a formal occasion wasn't communicated to you, Laura. That's very remiss of your mother."

  "That's strange, Daddy, Viktor was just complimenting me on my outfit. Isn't that so, Viktor?"

  "Indeed, as jazzers might say, she's a real shape in a drape," concurred Lazarev.

  The cut and thrust of many political brawls had immured George Smith to most anything that could be thrown at him, but for a moment
even his fabled sang-froid was tested. Not only did he appear nonplussed by his daughter's unexpected show of spunk but also by the strange man who seemed to be her friend. He recovered quickly. "Well, no matter," he replied with a smile.

  But it did matter. George Smith, Sally knew, was furious with his daughter for the way she was dressed, for bringing her oh-sosuspect boyfriend with her, and for the fact that he now had to pose with her for the press, who were demanding a father/daughter picture. And what the press wanted, George Smith in election year would do his best to arrange. "Laura, I wonder if I might tear you away from your charming partner for a few moments?" George asked. "You will excuse us, won't you, Viktor?" * * * * "My daughter seems to be a little taken by you," observed Sally as she watched Laura and her father posing for the photographers, inwardly cursing herself for the unintended double-entendre. A shrug from Lazarev. Her gaze never leaving her daughter, Sally Smith continued in as casual a voice as she could manage, "I know my daughter, Mr Lazarev, and she's not the same girl that went to Leeds a few weeks ago, she's been...transformed." Again the casual shrug. "You're something of a mystery, Mr Lazarev, even Laura seems

  to know precious little about you." "You've asked her?" "I spoke to her at length this afternoon. You shouldn't be surprised; she's the daughter of a very prominent politician. She can't be gadding about with just any Tom, Dick or..." "Viktor?" "Exactly." There was no apology in Sally's voice and her directness provoked a laugh from Lazarev. "I am sure with your husband's connections you'll have all the information you need by tomorrow evening, and then you'll realise just how disreputable I actually am."

  A raised eyebrow was all that signalled the fact that Sally Smith's blood had just run very cold. "Disreputable?"

  "Very. So 'very' in fact that by tomorrow evening you will be in conference with your husband debating how to extricate your daughter from the clutches of such a dangerous man."

  Determined not to be disconcerted by the turn of the conversation, Sally merely prompted. "Disreputable, dangerous? How very intriguing. Surely you're exaggerating, Mr Lazarev?"