Vanessa: Architect of My Destiny

'No. I don't think so. The Duke of Wherever is suitably ... umm ... discreet? Is that the word I'm looking for?' And she laughed.

Yes, I suppose that The Duke of Wherever was quite a discreet meeting place. Mind you, the fact that Vanessa was thinking in such terms suggested that we had reasons to be discreet. I still didn't have Vanessa sorted out. Were she and I more than a couple of no-strings friends? And was I even her only no-strings friend? And what was the situation with Sebastian, he with the Saville Row suits and many fingers in many pies?

When Vanessa phoned, I was on my way over to my new office. George had had his solicitor sort out the paperwork, and I had wasted no time in drawing up plans for the internal renovations. At some stage, someone had opened up a gallery on the street side of the first floor. The idea was OK. I liked the idea. But the engineering was somewhat inadequate and the front edge of the first floor was sagging badly. I needed to measure it up for a steel and ensure that there were adequate load-bearing points in the party walls. I also needed to brief George's solicitor on preparing party-wall agreements - just in case.

George's solicitor had an office near Paddington Hospital. By the time that I had finished there, it was already five-thirty, so I walked straight to the now-famous Duke of Wherever. There was no sign of Vanessa and I was tempted to order a bottle of cava and two glasses. But then I decided that I was thirsty, so I settled for a bottle of Stella. Vanessa phoned shortly after six to say that she was running late. 'Tell me what you'd like to drink, and I'll have it ready and waiting,' I said.

Vanessa laughed. And then she said: 'An ice-cold lager.'

'Stella?'

'Perfect,' she said. When Vanessa arrived, fifteen minutes later, her Stella was waiting. And there was no need for her to know that I was already onto my second.

'You look a little ... stressed,' I suggested.

'Do I?' Vanessa nodded. For a few seconds she just frowned and looked somewhere over my right shoulder. And then she said: 'Most people come to us - to Quay Questions - looking for answers they can use. But, occasionally, we get a client who believes they already have the answers they want. They just want us to confirm those answers. And when we don't, when we can't, when our fieldwork provides different answers, things can get ... well ... difficult. I've just spent almost two hours with a fellow who refuses to believe what his customers are clearly telling him.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, oh,' Vanessa said. And she took a very un-ladylike swig of her Stella. 'I don't suppose you have such problems. I imagine your clients are rather better behaved.'

'Not always,' I told her.

For a minute or so - possibly more - neither of us spoke. And then I said: 'So ... where to from here?' I meant 'where to' with her difficult client. But Vanessa took it in a different way.

'We could go and grab some supper, if you like. Henderson's have invited Seb up to York. I'm footloose and fancy free - or at least I will be once I get Oliver the Fool out of my mind.'

'Yes, we could grab some supper,' I said. 'What are your taste buds telling you?'

'Something simple. Pizza. Pasta. Something like that.'

Pizza? Pasta? I assumed that we were probably not talking Pizza Express. 'There's a little place a couple of streets over,' I said. 'Lazio. It seems to specialise - not surprisingly - in Lazian dishes. Pizza Bianca. Suppli. Pasta Carbonara. Stuff like that. Any appeal?'

'Perfect,' Vanessa said. And it was.

We began with Pizza Bianca. Basically a simple, yeasty flatbread disc, almost crispy on the outside, yet delightfully soft in the centre, and generously sprinkled with salt and chopped fresh rosemary. Not a drop of tomato sauce nor a basil leaf to be seen. We followed the pizza with an equally simple dish: Fettuccine Carbonara, perfectly-cooked ribbons of silky pasta in sauce of barely-cooked egg yolks, with little chunks of lightly-cured pork and a generous topping of salty Pecorino Romano and freshly-ground black pepper. And, of course, there had to be wine. In keeping with the region, we chose a crisp Orvieto.

'OK?' I asked Vanessa, when our waiter had removed our empty plates.

'Perfect,' she said. 'We shall have to come here again.'

We didn't engage in the horizontal tango that evening. Vanessa had an early meeting the following morning and she thought that she had better get home and get a decent night's sleep in her own bed. 'As opposed to an indecent sleep in my bed,' I said.

'The problem with your bed,' she said, 'is that we don't actually get to do much sleeping.' We kissed, and I flagged down a passing cab and sent her on her way to Holland Park. Then I took the long way home. It was a perfect night for a post-prandial stroll.

I didn't see Vanessa for the best part of a month after that. Once or twice, I was tempted to phone her; but I wasn't sure what I was going to say - other than 'Do you fancy a glass of cava? Or an ice-cold Stella? Or a finger fuck up against the wall in my kitchen?' Besides which, I was run off my feet. I even had to hire an assistant: Miriam, a recent graduate who had spent a few months working in one of the big practices before deciding that she hated it.

And then Vanessa phoned me. 'Where are you?' she asked.

'Here or hereabouts,' I said.

'And is hereabouts anywhere near The Duke of Wherever?'

'Umm ... maybe five minutes by cab,' I told her.

'In that case, shall we say six o'clock?'

'I think I can probably wait that long,' I said.

She laughed her familiar laugh. 'If you get there first, mine's a vodka and tonic,' she said.

When Vanessa arrived at The Duke she was wearing a summery dress, mainly red, with a full skirt. 'You look very nice,' I said. 'I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress before.'

'Thank you. I felt like having a girly day. Also, I have a feeling that we are about to run out of summer, so I thought I'd better get in while I could.'

I glanced out through the open doors. 'Yes. Unfortunately, you may be right. Still ... cheers.' And I raised my glass.

'Cin cin,' she said.

We chatted for a moment or two and then I remembered the problem she'd been having with the chap who didn't like her survey results. 'Did you manage to get matters resolved?' I asked.

'Not right away,' she said. 'In fact, the bastard decided that if we weren't going to give him the answers he wanted he wasn't going to pay our invoice. In the end, I was forced to mention it to Seb.'

I looked at her with what I hoped was a quizzical look.

'Seb is a strong believer in paying your debts when they fall due,' she explained. 'He got Stanley to give Oliver a call.'

'Stanley?'

'A chap who works for Seb.'

I nodded. 'And then this Oliver fellow paid up?'

'Not immediately. In fact he told Stanley to go fuck himself. So Stanley went around to Oliver's place, shook his hand - quite firmly, I gather - and then waited while Oliver did his best to sign a cheque for the outstanding amount. Plus a small late payment fee. And then, apparently, Oliver took himself off to A&E where they told him that he had two broken fingers and that he would need surgery to reattach a tendon that had somehow come loose. Sometimes, I don't think that Stanley quite knows his own strength.' And she smiled and took another sip of her vodka and tonic.

I knew, of course, that there were still a few businessmen dotted about London who believed in doing things the old-fashioned way. But I hadn't realised that Seb was one of them. Ouch. It was certainly something to bear in mind.

'Are we dining this evening?' I asked as we neared the end of our drinks.

'Sorry. I need to go home and pack,' Vanessa said. 'Seb is taking me to Barcelona for a few days. Well ... we're starting out from Barcelona, and then we're going sailing.'

'Sailing?'

'Yes. In one of his more complicated deals, Seb ended up with a boat. A 60-foot yacht.'

'I didn't realise that you two were into sailing,' I said.

'We're not. But, fortunately, the boat comes with its own crew. A New Zealand couple. Buxton and Pania. I gather they do the actual sailing and the cooking and stuff like that. Seb and I just have to look decorative.'

'Nice.'

Vanessa nodded and then glanced at her watch. 'I think we just have time to slip back to your place and then I need to get a cab.'

I wasn't one hundred percent sure why we were slipping back to my place, but ...

When we got there, I unlocked the outside door and picked the post up off the doormat.

'Come on,' Vanessa said. 'You haven't got time for that.'

I followed her up the stairs, unlocked the door to my flat, and followed her inside. She headed straight for the kitchen where she hoisted her full skirt, lowered her knickers, stepped out of them, and, with her skirt still up around her waist, she bent over the kitchen table. What a sight to behold! Her toned thighs; her womanly globes of arse; and, just peeping out, her pink-nosed fur-fringed beaver. I hastily undid my belt, lowered my zip, and took out my growing cock. It was all over in three or four minutes.

'Yes. That's better,' she said, when she stood up, turned around, and kissed me. Softly. 'But now I really must be going. Until we meet again,' she said. And she kissed me again.

'Don't forget to apply lots of sunscreen,' I told her. But, by then, she was probably already out of the front door.

A couple of days after Vanessa's tabletop visit, I got a note from the estate agent pointing out that my six-month lease on the flat was nearing its end. However, their client would be more than happy to extend it for a further six months. I sent a reply saying that I would give the matter due consideration and get back to them in a day or two. If I had stuck to my original plan, that was the point at which I would have sought accommodation somewhere in the region of Maidenhead or Taplow or somewhere like that. But, when I had made my original plan, I had yet to meet Vanessa. After thinking about it for a couple of days, I decided to take the six-month extension.

Vanessa phoned me when she got back from Barcelona.

'How was it?' I asked. 'How was a life on the ocean waves?'

'It was very pleasant. Although I think that you do need the crew. Having them made it all so easy. Without them ... well, without them we couldn't have done it.'

'So ... does this mean that you are now yacht owners.'

'Maybe. I left Seb down in Barcelona. He's looking into how we might get into the charter business. We'd probably need a second boat.'

'Gosh.'

'Yes. Perhaps I can tell you more over a glass of something.'

'A glass of something at The Duke of Wherever. You don't believe in being too specific, do you?'

'Six o'clock? Well ... six o'clock or thereabouts,' she said.

'I will be somewhere in the vicinity at somewhere about that time,' I assured her.

The Duke of Wherever was surprisingly busy. 'Bit of a party in here tonight,' I said to the barman (whose name I had discovered was Piers).

'A bit of an incident at the Victoria,' he said. 'I think we have most of their regulars.'

'Incident?'

'Don't know. But the place is teeming with cops. Apparently.'

I ordered a bottle of cava and a couple of glasses. Well ... Vanessa had just returned from Barcelona. She was probably suffering from withdrawal symptoms.

I casually asked a chap who I had not seen in The Duke before what was happening at the Victoria. 'Chap reckons he has a bomb,' he said.

'A bomb?'

'That's what he reckons,' he said. And he went back to his pint and his newspaper.

Vanessa a arrived a couple of minutes later. She was looking brown and puzzled. 'This place is humming,' she said.

'Apparently, there's some chap at the Victoria reckons that he has a bomb. So a few of the Victoria mob have come down here.'

'A bomb?'

'That's what he reckons,' I said, echoing my newspaper-reading informant.

'They have Bayswater Road closed off,' she said. 'Well ... part of it.'

I poured us a couple of glasses of cava. 'Cheers,' I said. 'And may I say that you look deliciously suntanned.'

'I'll show you my boobs later,' she said. 'I think you'll be impressed.'

'I take it that the weather was kind.'

'Very,' she said. 'I've been trying to think of some way we can get you down there. Do you know anything about boats?'

'I know that the pointy bit is called the bow; the un-pointy bit is not.'

Vanessa nodded. 'Something of an expert then.'

We drank about two-thirds of the bottle of cava and then we both had an attack of the munchies.

'Shall we check out Lazio?' I suggested.

'I wouldn't like them to think that we had abandoned them,' Vanessa said.

Later, back at my flat (with its about-to-be-renewed lease), Vanessa showed me her boobs. And, yes, I was impressed. Golden Mediterranean brown. 'Nice,' I said.

'Seb wasn't sure about me taking my top off with the crew right there. But I think I convinced him that they'd seen it all before.'

'And more.'

'Oh? Are you suggesting that my boobs are too small?' Vanessa said.

'Oh no. They're perfect. Just perfect. As are other parts of you.'

There was something particularly leisurely about our love-making that evening. Perhaps some of Vanessa's holiday mood had rubbed off on me.

'Do you ever miss me when I'm not here?' she asked, as we lay entangled in each other's arms.

'Miss you? Umm ... not really a luxury that I can afford to allow myself,' I said. 'You are, as my mother would have said, spoken for. But I do appreciate the moments that we do have together. Is that enough?'

'I should have gone to Manchester, shouldn't I?'

'Manchester? Oh ... university.' And we both laughed.

Vanessa didn't stay the night. 'Barcelona is an hour or so ahead of us, isn't it? Seb's likely to call at some ungodly hour. Don't get dressed,' she said. 'It's only midnight. I should be able to get a cab right outside your front door.'

'Call me when you get home,' I told her. And she did.

Did I miss Vanessa when I didn't see her for a while? Yes, of course I did. But she was a married woman. And she had a business to run. And I, too, had a business to run - a business that was getting busier by the day. And perhaps all of that combined to make the time that we did spend together even more special than it might otherwise have been.

I didn't hear from Vanessa for about three weeks, and then, one evening, I was in the kitchen, making myself a laksa, when she phoned. 'Are you at home?' she asked.

'I am,' I said.

'Oh, good. May I come and visit?'

'By all means. Where are you?'

'On the Heathrow Express. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes.'

'Have you eaten?'

'Umm ... no. But I have had a drink or two.'

'I'm making laksa,' I said. 'Sounds like I should make enough for two.'

When Vanessa arrived at the door, twenty minutes later, I got the feeling that 'a drink or two' may have been a bit of an underestimate. But I was pleased to see her, nevertheless.

'I've just put Seb on a plane to Australia,' she said.

'Australia? He gets around, doesn't he?'

'I was telling him about you.'

'You were telling him about us?' I said. 'Was that wise?'

'Not about us,' she said. 'About you. I was telling him how you specialise in restoring listed buildings while at the same time giving them a new life for the next hundred years. He wants to meet you. Well ... meet you again, I suppose. He has somehow ended up owning a Georgian terrace that's in danger of falling down. He thought that he would demolish it and start again. But, apparently, the council won't let him.'

'But you didn't tell him about us?'

'Gosh no.'

'Good.'

'At least I don't think I did.' And then she laughed.

I had known Vanessa for almost six months. (I had also 'known' Vanessa for almost six months.) But I was still never quite sure when she was joking.

'So ... what's Seb doing out in Australia?' I asked.

'He has a daughter.'

I nodded. I assumed there was more to it than that.

'Daughter wants to buy a business. She needs Daddy to negotiate the deal for her.'

Yeah, why not, I thought. It's only halfway around the world.

The laksa was very good - even if I do say so myself. A Malaysian mama would probably say that there was not enough coriander. And she would be right. There was none. I'm one of those one-in-five people who can't abide coriander. And it can't abide me.

'This is nice,' Vanessa said. 'I don't usually like curry, but this is brilliant. Or maybe it's because I haven't eaten today.'

'Maybe,' I said. 'Although I think I prefer the idea that it's brilliant.'

After the laksa, Vanessa was also brilliant. She made her intentions clear when she went off to the loo and returned with her skirt and knickers draped over her arm. 'Is it time?' she said.

'It certainly looks like it,' I said. 'And, unless I am mistaken, the hairstylist has been to visit.' The slopes of Vanessa's mound were still covered with blonde snatch thatch, but, a bit lower, her slightly puffy outer labia were as smooth as a baby's bum. 'Oh. Yes. I had a little trim. A little shave. What do you think?'

'I shall have to make an on-site inspection,' I said.

She nodded. 'Where would you like to do that?' she asked. 'On the table? Or should we go through to the boudoir?'

Fortunately, I had cleared the table while Vanessa was off in the loo. 'We could start here,' I said. 'And then, perhaps, move on.' I had discovered that Vanessa was particularly partial to a bit of tabletop action.

Vanessa and I saw quite a bit of each other while Seb was away in Australia but, eventually, he returned. And one of the first items on his 'to do' list was his semi-derelict terrace.

'Seb wants me to invite you to have supper with us,' Vanessa said. 'He wants to talk to you about his little row of houses that he's not allowed to pull down. What are you doing on Wednesday evening?'

'The day after tomorrow? It sounds like I am having supper with you and Seb,' I said.

Vanessa laughed. 'It'll be OK,' she said. 'He has suggested that we make a booking at The Butcher's Shop in Notting Hill Gate. I don't know if you've been there. It's carnivore HQ.'

I hadn't been there. But I had heard good things. 'OK. Wednesday it is,' I said. 'Oh ... and do you have an address for the terrace? I should probably take a quick look before we meet.'

Vanessa gave me a rough idea of where it was. 'You'll know it the moment that you see it,' she said. 'The rest of the street is quite smart. Not sure how the orphan bit ended up the orphan bit.'

I consulted my London A-Z and then took the Central Line along to Notting Hill Gate. From there, it was just a short walk to where X marked the spot. I could immediately see why the council would not have been keen on seeing the terrace demolished. In its day, it would have been a very stylish row of houses. There was at least one front door that was far from original; there were a number of boarded up windows; and, on the ground floor, there were several places where the render had parted company with the underlying brickwork; but it certainly didn't look like a disaster.

On Wednesday, I arrived at The Butcher's Shop on the dot of seven and Vanessa and Seb were already there. 'Ah, George,' Seb said.

'Umm ... Harry,' I replied.

Seb frowned. 'Umm, no. Sebastian,' he said. 'Although these days most people call me Seb.'

'No. I mean I'm Harry,' I said.

Seb seemed confused. 'I thought Nessa said that your name was George.'

'An old joke,' I said. 'University. You know how it is.'

'No,' he said. 'Not really. I never went to university. The moment I was able to leave school - well, before really - I went to work for Molly Mitchelson, bookkeeper to the stars. Bookkeeper to the stars of the East End, anyway. Fingers Malloy ... C-C Ciccolini ... Jockey Thompson ... the Kandi Brothers ... they were all Molly's clients at one time or another. Anyway ... welcome. Have you been here before?'