Crossing the line - 4. Around Mr Heyward

“I had my interview with Mr Heyward today.”

We were sitting in the garden, unwinding with a drink after work. I was wearing my favourite cotton pants, which were starting to show their age, alas, whilst Dan was in some old shorts that he’d left at my place. I’m not sure what their original purpose was but they’d lost any sense of shape or decency. He’d swung one of his legs over the arm of the chair, and it was clear he wasn’t wearing anything underneath and the tempting glimpses had been giving me ideas. His statement, however, snapped me back to the present.

“Isn’t that a bit late for the job interview, it’s been, what, three months or so?”

“A bit over that. That’s the point, you get an interview with Mr Heyward after your trial period. To confirm you in place.”

“And?”

He shrugged, “Seemed to go OK, but he doesn’t give much away.”

“Where was the interview?”

“In The Manor, of course.”

“Come on, details.”

He rolled his eyes, “Well, I didn’t get to go up the staircase and through the portico, back entrance for folk like me.”

The house was a monstrous modern edifice, built in a contemporary neo-classical style. It featured a grand entrance staircase leading up to a portico, which opened onto an equally grand Marble Hall which was supposedly a contemporary re-interpretation of Leoni’s iconic room at Clandon. The Marble Hall was just about the only room in the interior that was photographed, and the pictures didn’t look promising. Overall, the house must have cost millions.

“But I did get to wait in the Marble Hall.”

“How was it?”

He shrugged, “Marble, white, rather cold. Good for parties though, but you’d have to stick to white wine, red’d mark the marble. It all came from Italy, cost a bomb, I gather.”

“Then?”

“Side corridor, with framed plans of the house.”

“Original?”

“Might’ve been but I was escorted along to Mr H’s office, double quick. Big, wood-panelled room, bookcases in alcoves, wood to the ceiling. Not much furniture besides the desk. A fucking huge one. And a chair for me.”

“At least you didn’t have to stand, like in the headmaster’s study!”

He rolled his eyes. “No papers on the desk, nothing. No Mr. H. The escort says, ‘Mr Heyward will be with you soon’ and disappears, so I stare at the picture which is hanging behind Mr H’s chair. It’s a Donald Mitchell, leastwise it looked the spit of one from the show but a bit smaller.”

“Really. Which one?”

“Curly haired blond kid, promising you a lot if the money’s right.”

I laughed, “I remember. Odd choice.”

Dan shrugged again, “Perhaps it’s an ex?”

“Ex-rent boy more like.”

“Now who’s being bitchy! Anyroad, I didn’t hear him come in. Slipped in quiet through a jib door. Comments about me liking Donald Mitchell’s work and I get embarrassed to be caught staring at a guy’s dick and so I blurt out that my boyfriend writes about art and that we were at a recent show at the Tramshed where there was a similar picture. He knew what I was talking about, didn’t have to explain.”

“Amanda has VIP private views for folk like him, with a personal tour from the curator.”

“And a welcome for a groaning cheque book.”

“Precisely.”

“So, anyroad, he wanted to know who you were, so I had to tell him. Hope it was OK, and I think I managed to remember the magazines you write for.”

“Fine, we’re no secret and if it helps your career then even better.”

“Don’t hold your breath, that was the longest conversation we had. Afterwards he asked questions, I answered, and he looked dead-pan. He does that, evidently, never lets you know whether the answer suited or not.”

“Good negotiating technique.”

“I did what you suggested and concentrated on the job. I’d put together some notes and I sort of read them off in my head. Hardly gripping stuff, but I hope I got there.”

“Well, it sounds promising, and I think you’d know if things weren’t working.”

“Yeah.” He blushed. “I brought up the guys moonlighting and said I gathered some stuff was for the house and felt it might not be good for morale to have two bosses, like, and that it might be worth looking at the way things were organised.”

“Wow!”

“Felt a bit difficult, especially as he just did his dead-pan stare. Tried not to waffle and added that I realised such a review might do me out of some responsibility, but it was needed for the good functioning of the team. And that we should also assess the attitude to moonlighting elsewhere.”

“And?”

“Got a nod, a thank you and a ‘lots to consider there’. Then that was it.”

I smiled, kissed him, and tickled the tempting intimate area on display. He grinned and said we’d better go inside.

--oOo—oOo—

The post brought a large brown envelope, handwritten address, return address vaguely familiar.

“Open it then!”, Dan stared at me. It was Saturday, he was staying the weekend and post had arrived during breakfast.

There was a note inside the envelope, from Steve, the librarian ‘Thought these might interest you, S.’ First there was an Italian magazine, Oggi! A sort of equivalent to Hello or something, full of horribly staged pictures of the rich and famous, along with luscious prose. What on earth? But there were paparazzi pictures too, and they weren’t shy, an Italian film star caught on a nude beach.

Dan grinned when he saw it, “He’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of!”

There was also a selection of party pictures, semi-naked men. “These aren’t so hot, all those strange angles.”

Dan peered at them, “Presumably from a concealed camera. Hang on a sec, that’s the Marble Hall at Mr H’s place.”

Of course it was. “They don’t give much away, very coy - an English businessman’s country residence. But it’s the Marble Hall all right.”

“With a row of strapping young men in boots, black jockstraps, leather waistcoats, and fixed smiles.” Dan’s smile was a bit fixed, “Best guess as to what this is?”

“I’ve seen plenty of similar outfits in gay clubs, but the Marble Hall?”

“Hmm”, Dan was giving the pictures a close examination.

“The entertainment, presumably; some of those guys might be worth getting to know.”

Dan pulled a face, “Odd outfit for a stripper, dancers maybe? Rugby players more like, look at that guy. Bouncers?”

“Bit under dressed for that.”

“All the awkward bits covered.”

“Whatever. Saucy.”

Dan was peering intently at the pictures, “Could easily be some of my guys there. That one, headless. Jack. Could easily be.”

“It depends when was taken.”

Dan grimaced, “If it isn’t Jack, it could be.”

We stared at the pictures, not getting much else from them; they were hardly crisp and organised.

“Will you show it to Jack?”

Dan shook his head, “Doubt it. You’re right, I need to make sure he’s not being forced into anything, but not too heavy either.”

“It gives us an insight into what Heyward’s parties are like. I reckon these guys are just window dressing, line up in the hall and a show of muscles. Any dancing or sexual antics would be done by professionals.”

Dan grinned, “All the sexy stuff done by real pros; reckon Jack’d be a crap dancer.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Don’t be so certain, people can surprise you, he might moonlight as a stripper, nice wholesome boy turning into a sexy beast.” We grinned.

There was another sheet, this was a photocopy of various clippings from financial papers. I couldn’t even begin to make sense of them but there was a scribbled note from Steve, ‘Read the last para’, and at the bottom was a neatly typed precis, referencing the various articles. It was about Francis Heyward’s finances, the money seemed to be much more on a wing and a promise than I’d realised. The writer warned that the enterprise was looking seriously undercapitalised and that some of Heyward’s business partners were dubious.

Dan stared at me, “Any idea what all this means?”

I bit my lip, uncertain how gloomy to be “Well, if I understand it, the business is borrowing too much, and the loans are secured on Heyward’s tangible assets.”

“The pictures and the house?”

“Presumably. Sounds as if he’s not making as much money as he’d like you to believe. But it’s only temporary, is the official line. He is also looking to get money from more insalubrious sources.”

“Any idea what or whom?”

“Not that I can see. You want me to ask Steve if he knows anything?”

Dan shrugged, “Reckon it wouldn’t hurt. Leastways, I’d best beware.”

“There might be downsizing.”

“Yep.”

I smiled, trying to be encouraging, “Enjoy it while it lasts, then.”

--oOo—oOo—

Dan phoned me, which was rare; we tended to use email or text. After all he was at work supervising his staff and overseeing security, not to mention greeting any visiting cars.

“You got a moment?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Great news, I’ve got me confirmation letter from Mr H, even thanks for my helpful suggestions, and I go for my measurements for my suit, tomorrow.”

“Suit?”

“Yeah”, I could hear the smile in his voice, “proper hand-made jobbie, measured and custom made, need look proper for the guests.”

“Congratulations.”

I still felt there was something unsatisfactory about Heyward. Not just the financial issues, most big firms had dodgy dealing somewhere, but the issues with the moonlighting and the staff might smack of exploitation. When it came down to it, I just didn’t trust him, but that might be my particular past speaking. And for Dan, it was good news after all whatever the shenanigans at Heyward’s parties, Dan was just security, on the outside. He had a job, and the firm was prepared to invest in his future; the tailor was indeed a posh one, not quite Savile Row, but probably expensive.

Dan’s suits got a lot of wear, his current pair looked a bit battered already, and I sometimes wondered what he got up to at work. Certainly, the new ones would have to be well made indeed to stay looking good. But not only would there be two suits, but each one would have two pair of trousers. Not stinting on anything. I didn’t think much more about it, bar looking forward to seeing him in a suit that fitted properly and was well cut. But the day he went to the tailor’s, he phoned me in the evening, and I discovered that there was rather more to it.

“How was the fitting?”

“Bit strange.”

“How so?”

“Well, the place is right proper and the guys doing the fitting were real professional. A senior bloke and a junior who actually did most of the stuff. He was quite cute, I thought to myself that I wouldn’t mind him fiddling with my bits”, he gave a dry laugh, “famous last words. There was a dinky changing room and I emerged without me trousers and the older one asked me to remove my underpants, the new trousers were designed to fit snugly and provide all the support needed, anything underneath them would spoil the lines.”

“Blimey. You’ll be going commando.”

“Looks like it”, he didn’t sound happy, “me bits’ll be left all dangly; I like my support.”

“The trousers might give you that.”

“Hah, if they’re that snug, everything’ll be on display.”

“Perhaps that’s the idea, your bum will look great with well-fitting trousers.”

“Tight fitting trousers, showing off me bits. Shit.”

“Now that’s not a good idea”, and we both laughed.

I have to confess that the idea of Dan wearing nothing under a well-fitting pair of trousers or jeans was rather appealing, in the right circumstances. But it was an entirely different matter when it was Dan’s well-shaped arse on full display when he bent over to talk to visitors in cars. And then there was the little matter of what happened when he got a stiffie, not that I imagine Dan got hard much at work, but you never know, things did happen.

The conversation continued when Dan came over next, “You really think Mr H wants to see my junk clearly.”

“Or perhaps your nice firm bottom.”

Dan snorted, “It’s a bit creepy.”

“No creepier than getting his staff to parade around in leather jock-straps.”

“You reckon?” I nodded. “I’m on three months’ notice now.”

“So, you’ll be wearing them for three months at any rate. I reckon you need to get some practice in.”

“You what?”

“Go to work tomorrow like it, without any knickers on.”

“But. What about the lads?”

“They’ll hardly notice.”

Another snort, “But, if I get hard.”

“Is that likely?”

He frowned, “Probably not. But still…”

I looked at him and took his hands, “It’s put up or shut up. And it’s the same dodgy line your guys have probably had to cross. I’m comfortable with this bit, if you are, but if there’s any doubt then resign, do the three months, and come and live with me, save money on rent. The thing to be wary of is when he asks you to do the job naked.” That got a smile, at least.

The next day, I texted him to find out how it was going.

- How’s the little man? 😊

- Don’t. Feels strange. Everything wobbling.

- Any mishaps?

- No! Don’t bear thinking about.

- Think you’ll get used to it?

- We’ll see 😉

- CU 2nite?

- Later. Drink with Jack first.

- Level head, clear mind and forget about the little man.

- OK 😊 XX

--oOo—oOo—

“Nige came along with Jack, they’re both of an age.”

I cocked my head, “Both susceptible to some extra cash?”

“Yeah, but they’ve both signed agreements, so couldn’t say much.”

“Or wouldn’t?”

Dan smiled, “Well, that’s the theory. They were both approached last year, other guys were doing it. It seemed no big deal, bit of security for the odd party, and that’s all it was.”

“At first.”

He smiled, “Yep. They ended up freezing their bums off, showing themselves off like idiots.”

“As in the photos?”

He nodded, “When I suggested sex, both were firm in their denials then Jack cracked, he’s worried sick about his girl-friend.”

“She doesn’t know he’s doing it?”

“She suspects. He’s not done anything too dodgy, just parading about in very little. The pay’s good, there was no coercion and never a suggestion of anything else.”

“That’s all?”

“Bit more. Nige commented that there were sometimes professional entertainers, I think the word was in quotes. And always the best, no expense spared.”

I laughed, “So, exotic dancers not strippers.”

He smiled, “The evenings seem to be themed, sometimes they’d be ‘freezing our bollocks off in jock straps’, and others it’d be regular black uniform. Same with the extra folk, different outfits.”

“So, what did you tell Jack to do about his girlfriend?”

“Take her to a nice quiet pub for a drink and tell her everything.”

“Including how much he earned?”

“Yep. Hope she has a sense of humour.”

“Yep.”