Capritzo regarded him with mild amusement. Well over six feet tall with a muscular body pumped with steroids, Maharsh’s single-minded, almost dog-like loyalty to his master made him marginally more terrifying and most certainly more dangerous than the man he adored.
At one time Maharsh was allowed access to Capritzo’s harem, but after repeated complaints from the girls and finally a suicide, it was necessary to curtail Maharsh’s sexual excesses. Built like a bull, with genitalia to match, Capritzo found him invaluable when it became necessary to persuade reluctant young ladies to recognize the hopelessness of the situation in which they found themselves.
‘Kendall’s fate has already been determined, my friend,’ Capritzo replied with a sigh of regret. Such a waste. ‘You will organize for me two costumes in appropriate sizes.’ Opening the top drawer of his desk he drew out a coloured photograph. ‘This is the young lady in question. A size eight should do.’
‘Of what design, lord?’
‘For Miss Churchill, I think a harem costume would be appropriate; for young Kendall, the gallant but foolish Marc Anthony.’ He smiled thinly, licking his lips repeatedly as he paused, considering. ‘Now, Miss Lambert?’
‘She is here lord awaiting your pleasure.’
‘Bring her in.’ He leaned back again and waited, fingertips against fingertips.
Elizabeth Lambert was still attractive but at twenty-six the need to wear heavier and more elaborate make-up was apparent. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen she had been an active member of Capritzo’s harem but was finally given the push to make room for new - and younger - candidates.
Amongst her many talents was a flair for writing which had culminated in the completion of the first draft of a book based on her experiences. To suggest that such an exposé would not be in Capritzo’s best interests would be understating the issue considerably. When he learned of its existence, both Miss Lambert and her fledgling manuscript were doomed.
‘Lilly,’ he acknowledged with a nod.
‘Sir,’ she dropped a shallow curtsy.
‘Sit.’
She did so quickly. When she looked up, he was staring at her fixedly.
‘I have something special for you to do. There is a young man I wish you to part from his female companion at the New Year’s Eve ball at the Fenshaw. He is quite attractive, I can assure you, and fancies himself totally irresistible to women. He has, however, a particular fondness for redheads. I want you to try this on for me.’ From a side drawer came a magnificent natural hair wig.
‘Now sir?’
‘Now.’
She took the wig, turned it around briefly to determine front from back and then eased it on overtop of her short blond hair. The effect was electrifying.
‘My Mum had hair like this,’ she gushed, suddenly nervous as she ran her fingers through the long strands. ‘How do I look?’
‘As I hoped,’ he replied coolly. ‘You will not only deflect this young man’s thoughts away from his companion but you will insist that he leave with you well before the evening’s end. I am confident that you will devise a suitable enticement.’ He smiled thinly as his eyes washed over her. ‘Maharsh will bring you to this function and there provide you with a costume and an invitation card.’
‘Sounds like fun. What sort of costume?’ Her confidence began to soar.
‘A harem costume.’
‘Great! You’ll be pleased to know I’ve kept my figure just like it was when…’
She was interrupted by a sharp clinking sound followed by a soft hum as the door to Capritzo’s private chambers opened automatically.
‘Then surely I am the best judge of the truth of such a statement.’ His eyes bored deep within her. ‘Wash thoroughly and remove all trace of make-up.’
She nodded abstractly as she rose from the chair and began to make her way across the room on legs suddenly grown weak at the knees. She had reached the doorway before he called out to her.
‘Lilly.’ She turned, leaning lightly on the doorframe for support. ‘Continue to wear the wig.’
‘Yes sir,’ she replied in a hoarse whisper.
2
Davie whistled snatches of Al Jolson’s song I’m Sitting On Top of the World as he cleaned and polished his car. It was December 31st and in a few short hours he’d be picking up - no, collecting - Miss Churchill and taking her, like the prince he was, to a fancy-dress ball. Chances are she’ll reject this jerk, whoever he is, and then she’ll fly to Davie’s side, seeking his protection and begging to leave on his arm.
Davie chuckled. If he played his cards right and Janet came through as promised, Little Miss Tightass might just find herself at a different kind of ball.
‘I’m sittin’ on top of the world, just ballin’ along, just singin’ this song.’ He smiled wickedly as he stood back to admire his handiwork although he knew that no amount of elbow grease would ever make “Old Sally” young again. Sally was Davie’s nickname for his car; short for “Sally the Shit Box”; rude perhaps, but accurate. As he slid behind the wheel his eyes traced every inch of the interior which had been laboriously cleaned of every manner of filth, then polished.
‘Sally baby, you smell like a silicon whore on a Saturday night.’
Persuading Sarah to accompany him had been a piece of cake. Perhaps that prick Capritzo had been right because her attitude did change remarkably when Davie arrived at the house on Bacon Street dressed in grey flannel pants, pale blue shirt, tie and - hey baby! - a blazer. The bouquet of flowers helped too but it was the invitation card with her name printed in copperplate which really sent her over the edge.
Davie had played the perfect gentleman throughout the evening; all charm and cool sophistication until Sarah finally relented.
Typically, David assumed almost without thinking that he had worked his magic yet again, enticing the fair young Sarah even against her will. Such charm in one so young - such arrogance! Davie’s ego would have taken a knock if he knew the truth, however, and that was quite simple.
Sarah’s roommates were no longer prepared to indulge her prudish tendencies. The only reason why she had been invited to share such cheap - inexpensive, please - accommodation so close to campus was because Heather and Janet saw Sarah as a first-class ticket to the Good-times Gallery. Certain that she would draw the guys like flies, they were soon to learn that she was pure poison, so a campaign was launched to basically separate Sarah from her virginity, and as soon as possible. Ultimately Sarah was faced with a choice. Either date Davie or find accommodation elsewhere; a formidable challenge for a young girl with limited financial resources. There was one slight consolation, however. Sarah was assured that Davie was an experienced lover so, if you have to go, well …
Sarah
