Chapter 28: Lady Madeline Crofton-Foxe

8th Febuary, 2009. Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea. London

An an expensive, high performance car is always a useful accessory when dealing with Sloane Rangers, or indeed with any other type of female, I drove to Bayswater in the Porsche. I parked as close as possible to Gemma's house, then rapped on the lion headed Georgian brass knocker on the front door.

It opened to my knock so quickly someone must have been in the hallway.

On first acquaintance the petite and slim Lady Madeline Crofton-Foxe did not appear to be a typical Sloane Ranger. She was dressed as if just come from the grouse moor, or from beating the bounds of her family estate. Her mid brown, collar length hair was covered by one of those Harris Tweed flat peaked caps the gentry wear, which perched on top of an attractive woman's head looks extraordinarily sexy. She wore a Barbour waxed jacket over a Bridgedale woolly pulley, and expensive, well cut, denim jeans emphasised her trim figure. Green wellies completed her ensemble.

"Yes?" Her voice and stare were cold. Although standing several steps above me our eyes were on the same level so she was unable to look down her nose at me, a small, up turned nose, rather than the long aristocratic sort such a person normally bore. Her eyes were light brown, and after taking in my status and class by scanning my garb, olive drab combat trousers held up by a stable belt in RGJ colours, with a well-worn fleece over a sweat shirt, flickered off mine to glance over my shoulder. Sloanies can't bear holding eye contact with the lower classes for too long a time. I introduced myself, then asked the whereabouts of Gemma, and her whole demeanour changed.

"Of course, the Porsche driving, whisking a gel off to the Seychelles, Mister Desmond." She smiled, and it was a genuine one, which lifted her lips, made her eyes twinkle and made my day. She held out her hand, which I shook, her grasp firm. "I'm Maddy. Come inside, and I will fill you in on Gemma, and where she is at the moment." She turned and entered the hallway, then walked along to a door on the right.I had a good view of her shapely arse and swinging hips, which seemed purposefully swung for my pleasure, which it was.

Maddy kicked off her wellies, socks and all; I noticed her toenails were painted an emerald green — it wasn't a Sloanie trait to paint ones toenails, unless on a beach abroad. She opened the door, waving me into the room.

"This is our reception room. The three of us spend evenings together in here when we are not out, or when entertaining in our own rooms. She pointed to a comfy looking armchair. "Please, — take a seat, Mister Desmond."

"Des. Please call me Des," I said, nearly disappearing in the cushioned comfort of the chair.

She perched on the arm of a sofa. "Gemma said you would probably call in..."

"Where is she?" I interrupted her, and I saw a glint of annoyance on her face.

"I do apologise for butting in, Lady Madeline, but I'm rather concerned that I can't reach Gemma, and I'm..."

"The name is Maddy, Des. Gemma is away working for the BBC, somewhere in the West Country." Maddy handed me an envelope. "She has explained everything in this letter." She rose from the arm of the sofa. "Read it while I go and clean-up. I've been walking around Kensington Gardens taking photos of the snowdrops."

It was only then I noticed the top of the range Nikon DSLR camera she was holding. She left the room, and I opened the unsealed envelope and read the letter inside.

Leaving out the endearments, and the references, the many references, to the time we had spent in the Seychelles the letter explained Gemma had been sent undercover for an exposé of care homes in the West Country, which in due course will be shown on the Panorama program on BBC TV.

Gemma's white lie, to explain her absence from work when I took her for lunch at the Compleat Angler, had been taken up by the producer of Panorama, and as it was Gemma's idea she was given a major part in the production. She had been promoted, and could now look forward to a successful career in the production/direction side of BBC TV, providing the work she was now engaged in was a success. Which she swore it would be. She was extremely grateful that I, albeit inadvertently, was the catalyst to her changing fortunes, and although she had enjoyed my company immensely, and could fall in love with me under different circumstances, she felt we did not have the prospect of a real, long lasting relationship due to my devious nature. She would always be grateful for our time together but was going to concentrate on her career, and should I be looking for a relationship I must concentrate on other females.

The last lines of her letter showed what her feelings were towards me.

Well, that's it Des. Thanks for a fabulous time in Praslin.I doubt if any other man will give me such a fantastic bonking. I will certainly miss that, but however good a sex life we might have enjoyed I could never be fully trustful of you, and I need trust from a man more than a good bonking. I've told the girls what a super lover you are. Neither have tasted lemon curd!

Ciao

Gemma.

I put down the letter. Bugger it! I hadn't been looking for a long term relationship with Gemma, just a good old fashioned fucking now and then.

Ah well, maybe her housemates were impressed with her comments on my sexual ability. Time would tell.

The door opened and Maddy walked into the room. It could have been a different woman. Her hair was piled up on her head, secured with a wooden pin such as Japanese Geisha use. Her slender neck was encircled by a choker of pearls, which immediately aroused me to such an extent a hard-on bulged my combats. She was wearing something like a kimono, although not so elaborate — more like a kaftan — which came to mid-calf, and I saw she was wearing high heeled leather boots. She came over to me, the shimmering silk kaftan swirling around her legs, and took the letter from my hand. As she did I caught a whiff of her perfume, which I detected as Givenchy's Dahlia Noir — Suzannah had very expensive tastes.

"Yvonne and I have read the letter ... What does the reference to lemon curd mean?"

I blushed. "Err ... it was something Gemma introduced me to. I'd never tasted lemon curd before."

"And you enjoyed the experience?"

I couldn't help the beam of delight which spread over my face. "Immensely."

"So, where are we going to eat?" Maddy asked. "It's nearly lunch time, and I have a healthy appetite. Shall we take a trip down memory lane for you and visit the Compleat Angler?"

"I didn't plan on taking anyone to lunch, and I'm hardly dressed for the Compleat Angler." I said, indicating my 'scruff order'.

Maddy looped her arm in mine. "Nonsense! arriving in a Porsche, with me on your arm, will get you admittance to any venue, and besides Zak Walton is a friend of mine." We left the house arm in arm and were soon heading west towards Gerrards Cross.

During the journey Maddy told me something of herself. She worked for an international advertising agency, Pure Delight, as a graphic designer — currently in a low level position but she had the ambition, and the skill, to break through into the top flight of her profession.

"I trained at the Slade... " Before I could make the usual comment she continued, "Any reference to Noddy Holder will lead to serious damage in your testicle department." She was taken on the staff of the agency not long after her graduation from the renowned school of art and design.

"I made a point of hanging around the clubs, pubs and bars the HR people from the agency frequented, and managed to gain the notice of the deputy head of recruitment." She smiled grimly. "Wearing no knickers and a short skirt soon grabbed his full attention, and after spending several nights between my thighs he offered me a job, hoping to continue screwing me when I was a member of staff." She grimaced. "It's not the best way to obtain employment, but is the usual route for young women in the advertising industry. When he demanded I continued the relationship I shopped him to his wife, and the resultant shit storm got him fired." She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose I should feel guilty for that but I don't."

"You must be doing OK? You own a house in Bayswater, wear Givenchy and pearls, and your kaftan must have cost a bomb."

She shook her head. "I barely manage to pay my way. The house was left to me by an aunt, my mother's sister, who was as rich, and as miserable, as sin. However the Council Tax in this Royal Borough is extremely high, which is why I have rented out rooms to Gemma and Yvonne." She was silent for a few minutes, and miles. "One advantage of working in advertising is the perks. If we mount a particularly successful advertising campaign, or give an extra boost to some celebrity's career, the clients give us minions goodies; perfume, handbags, pearl necklaces..." Her lips lifted in a sardonic smile, "both kinds. I bought the kaftan with a cash bonus, but still had to eat supermarket sliced bread, and cheapo baked beans, for months to recoup my outlay."

I realised there was more story to come, and kept quiet until we joined the M40, where I increased the speed to 70 mph. The acceleration pressed her into the backrest, and she laughed in pleasure.

"My previous boyfriend drove a Porsche 901, until it was repossessed, which is why he is now my previous boyfriend." She again fell silent, but as we approached Gerrards Cross she said. "Just because I have a title doesn't mean my people are rolling in money. In fact my parents are as poor as church mice, and live in a Grace and Favour flat in Windsor Castle, a sort of Alms House for geriatric former members of the Royal Household. I worked my way through Slade College as a ... well I expect you can guess, knowing how I got my job."

"You didn't go on the game?"

"Not exactly. I was an escort, and was expected to comply with any reasonable request made by a client." She gave a derisive grin. "I defined 'reasonable' by how many fifty pound banknotes were proffered. I never refused a request. It was when working for the escort agency I met Zak."

I shot her a startled look. "Zak Walton was a client?"

She shook with laughter — thankfully her laugh was the tinkling bell type rather than the braying donkey sort of Gemma.

"No, silly. He too was an escort. He had just started up as a freelance chef and needed a lot of money to finance his first small bistro. He also needed plenty of clients to bring in the money. Fortunately Zak is bi, so he scored with both sexes."

I had just about digested this information when we drove into the car park of the Compleat Angler. As we got out of the car I put my arms around Maddy and hugged her. "I spent eighteen months as an escort. I never refused a reasonable request either."

She stared at me in surprise, and then gently kissed me on my lips. "Thank you for that, Des."

The restaurant greeter was a large girl with a name tag of 'Polly'.

"Polly sweetheart, be a love and find Zak for me. Tell him Lady Madeline and her guest would like a table for two at his earliest convenience."

Polly nodded, dazzled by Maddy's friendly request, and hurried off.

I looked through the open doorway to the main restaurant and it seemed to be chock-a-block. Polly returned, accompanied by Zak Walton. He kissed Maddy and shook my hand.

"We're as full as an egg at the moment, Maddy, but I can always find room for you." He turned to Polly. "Tell Colin to start moving those two fat bastards at table twenty. They've sat there long enough. They haven't ordered any drinks, and the woman actually asked for ketchup with her roast pork. The obese barbarian."

I don't know who Colin was, or what he did to the two fat bastards at table 20, but within five minutes Polly was leading us to the recently vacated, and already re-laid table. While Maddy perused the menu I ordered a jug of non-alcoholic country cocktail. A mixture of apple and lemon and strawberries and other British fruits — although it being out of season I doubt they were locally sourced. Maddy passed the menu to me.

"I'm vegetarian, so will have the Ploughman's Mess of Pottage." She leaned across the table and whispered lewdly in my ear. "Although a vegetarian I'm not averse to man meat."

She emphasised her statement of intent by licking the inside of my ear.

I had to readjust my dress for the sake of comfort and modesty.

We both had the pottage, which was both filling and appetising. I have no idea what it comprised, but Maddy, who was quite a connoisseur of vegetarian dishes, pronounced it 'absolutely scrumptious', which in Sloaniespeak means 'fucking amazing.'

"I'm going to the kitchen to congratulate Zak on the pottage," Maddy said, "I might worm the recipe out of him. I can be very persuasive."

"I bet you can," I said, and she smiled, and then gave me a kiss, this time employing her sweet and succulent tongue.

She shimmered off to the kitchen, while I congratulated myself on having such an agreeable and attractive lunch guest, hoping she would be my breakfast guest the following morning.

I gazed around the room; Zak Walton's restaurant was still the place to go and be seen, and I recognised several faces from the world of TV, sport, and politics.

When Maddy returned to the table she appeared quite red in the face, and her cheeks were wet with perspiration, but I suppose standing talking in a kitchen would have that effect. The first course consumed and commented on I scanned the dessert menu.

"What would you like for dessert, Maddy?"

Her breathy reply, "You," had me rearranging my underwear again.

She leaned into me and said quietly, "Take me back to yours, and I'll have an extra-large serving of your Spitting Dick."

In fact, back in my up-until-now underused double bed at Iver she consumed two large helpings, and a smaller third helping, before I, tiredly, drove her back to Bayswater that evening. I would have liked her to stay the night, but she had work in the morning. We arranged I should phone her the next day to arrange any future meals together.

On Valentine's Day we flew out of Luton airport for Lanzarote.

OK, so The Canaries aren't quite the Seychelles, but the week Maddy and I spent in the Canary Islands was as full of high quality, athletic, and satisfying sex as the time spent with Gemma in the Seychelles. It was guilt free and fun, as well as frenzied. I had scratches, teeth marks, and love bites all over my body, and I bestowed such a rash of love bites on her slender white neck she wore a silk scarf when in company. In fact she only wore clothes when in company.

14th -21st Febuary; 2009 Lanzarote, Canary Islands.

It wasn't all 24/7 shagging during our stay in Lanzarote. Maddy had been working in her own time on a project connected to a large advertising campaign which had been won by her company. She wasn't employed on the team involved, but had conceived a theme for the whole enterprise which she had expanded and developed over the past weeks. She had taken a week off work to visit Lanzarote as 'contemplative time', and during the day spent much time viewing possible sites to shoot scenes for the forthcoming campaign. She had made up a picture board, and while in Lanzarote photographed and sketched not just likely shooting locations but also the local terrain, which is a glorious mixture of pastoral and volcanic landscapes; black sand and white sand beaches; towering cliffs and smooth, sheltered bays. During our stay Maddy and I must have driven or walked over all the different terrains present on the island. She would find something: a landscape, sky scape or sea scape, which had taken her eye, and would set up her sketching and water colour stuff. I would sit alongside her, admiring her quick skill in capturing the moment: a bird in flight;, shade and sun on a pasture, or the sometime terrifying bleakness of the volcanic landscape, which could be mistaken as lunar. Maddy asked me to talk to her when she sketched and painted, explaining that if she concentrated too hard on what she was doing the spontaneity and life would not be in her work.

Listening to someone talking helped her relax, and capture the essence of what she was trying to portray.

I sat and talked, telling her of my life while Maddy sketched and drew.

She would often ask questions; sometimes recounting a tale related to an event I had described which had happened to her or someone she knew.

I was concerned that my monologue might bore her, or send her off to sleep, and my east London accent would doubtless grate on her ears after a time. When I broached the subject she made light of it.

"Not at all, Des. I don't dislike the London accent, and yours is not as harsh as some, plus you have a pleasant tone and timbre of voice. Have you had practise in public speaking?"

"I used to give lectures when in the army, and had intended training to become a teacher when I left." I paused, wondering if I should let her know of my criminal record.