The Chocolate Lovers' Club

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  CHANTAL WAS ONLINE IN THEIR comfortable study at home. Ted hadn’t yet come home from work, but she’d been finished for hours. There was some salmon to grill with asparagus spears and a side salad to accompany it; supper would take moments to throw together once he arrived. A bottle of good Sauvignon Blanc was chilling in the fridge. She’d bought a small, rich chocolate torte when she’d popped briefly into Chocolate Heaven on her way home which they’d have for dessert. She’d kicked off her shoes and was enjoying a cup of Darjeeling as she picked absently at a packet of Munchies to keep her going until dinner. The theory was that if she was acting like the model wife, then Ted might not examine their bank account too closely and find the gaping hole in their finances. She shook the thought away. There was no way that she could have spent that money on jewelry—no matter how important—when Nadia had looked so damn desperate. Her friend was clearly going through agony. Chantal hoped that handing over the check would help Nadia to curb her husband’s gambling addiction and get the family back on track. She was aware that if Nadia didn’t get this under control, then it might be the last Chantal saw of her money. But if it could help her friend to get herself out of the mire, it was a risk worth taking.

  Gazing at the screen in front of her, Chantal realized that Nadia’s husband Toby wasn’t the only one with a serious addiction. It had been a week since the debacle with the guy at the hotel; you think she’d still be smarting in the aftermath but no, she was sitting here surfing the Internet for a glimpse of firm male torsos. She couldn’t help herself, but she was thinking about sex every waking minute. Every sleeping minute she was dreaming about it. Last night Daniel Craig was drizzling melted chocolate ice cream all over her— and she wasn’t even a Daniel Craig fan. The night before, it had been Russell Crowe’s turn. She felt as if she was slowly losing her mind. Her need for physical release seemed to increase in direct proportion to the lack of sex in her life. How did nuns manage? How did people who lived alone manage? Did their sex drives gradually tail off so that a nice cup of hot chocolate at night would suffice instead? It wasn’t happening to her. The less Ted wanted her, the more she needed him. And if she couldn’t have him then she damn well needed to get her quota of sexual pleasure elsewhere.

  The girls had been right, of course. It was dangerous to pick up strangers in bars. Madness. She’d promised them—and herself—that she was going to stop. And she would. It just seemed as if she’d hit on an idea that might be the solution to her problem.

  She’d entered “male prostitutes” into the Google search engine, but all it came up with were academic works dealing with the history of male prostitution and related subjects—not the hot sites that she’d anticipated so eagerly. “Gigolos” had thrown up a million references to the dreadful film Deuce Bi-galow: European Gigolo and a variety of products that all came with their own batteries in plain brown wrappers. Being a gigolo, it appeared, was a fast-fading profession.

  After much surfing, it seemed to Chantal that “male escorts” was the correct term for today’s stud for hire. “Straight male escorts” had narrowed it down from the reams of Web pages with gay sites emblazoned across them featuring ripped and toned guys available for your pleasure—if you were another guy, of course. Though she had to admit that some of the hunks listed on them looked quite enticing. Now she’d found one of the few sites that actually seemed to cater exclusively to women. It had a terrible title—Macho Males—and the banner heading was a naked guy with a snake twined round his shoulders, holding an apple over his important little places. But, cheesiness aside, it looked professionally put together. The site purported to be an upmarket service for businesswomen, but Chantal doubted it. Mind you, the kind of women who were able to pay around two hundred pounds an hour for an escort, plus the cost of a hotel room, had to be able to lay their hands on a fair amount of cash.

  Chantal toyed with the keyboard. Should she register for this? Would there be more safety in hiring a guy for a few hours from an agency than picking up someone in a bar? Surely that would protect her from the kind of situation that she’d just been involved in—he wasn’t likely to rob her afterward, was he? She wondered how many women used this kind of service these days. Career women who didn’t have time to juggle a home and children or a needy partner? Men had been playing this game for years—taking their pleasure with women as a business arrangement. Was it so unusual that the oldest profession was now available for women to take advantage of as well?

  Logically this was the most sensible thing to do. This wasn’t some casual pickup with all the risks that entailed. It was a professional arrangement. He couldn’t turn her down, he wouldn’t make off with her handbag afterward. He’d been vetted by an agency. The escort, she assumed, would be clean, personable and, more importantly he’d know the score. Chantal had long since managed to divorce her emotions from her sexual feelings—another trait that used to be viewed exclusively as male. But paying for sex? Could she really do that? She ran a manicured nail over her lip, deep in thought. How many other women were sitting at home doing exactly the same thing? The businesswoman in her wanted to know how many hits this kind of site got every month. Was it a growing business, or would most women still balk at doing something like this? How about her? How did she feel?

  Chantal tried to think clearly, but she couldn’t push down the pleasant flutterings in her stomach that all this was giving her. She made her decision. She could try this just the once and then, if it didn’t work out as planned, she could just walk away from it. She could do that. It could be that simple.

  She scrolled down the list of escorts, all posing provocatively in color photographs, in a section romantically named Look Before You Buy. Chantal groaned inwardly at some of the names the escorts had given themselves— Candyguy Hotjohnny Kingsizekip, Musclemark. Her finger stayed on the button and she scrolled past them all. Then her eyes strayed to one of the guys called simply Jazz. He had dirty-blond hair, a pronounced six-pack, and was well past jailbait age. She’d guess that he was in his early thirties, more mature than the average offering—though some of them looked as if they were lying about their age and exaggerating other assets too. Spending some time with Jazz could be fun. There was a buzz about doing this—it felt adventurous and wicked. Was this the sort of feeling that hooked Nadia’s husband to go back to gambling time and time again?

  Before she thought better of it, she pressed the button next to Jazz’s name. A blank e-mail template with Jazz’s contact details popped up. What should she say? Did she have to give any details about herself? Chantal shrugged at the screen and typed, I’d like to see you as soon as you can make it. It didn’t need to be any more complicated than that. Should she put her own name? Of course she should. Her e-mail address was a bit of a giveaway anyway. She added Chantal to the bottom of the mail and pressed “Send.” Now all she had to do was wait for Jazz to reply. She smiled to herself and switched off the computer. This would have to be her secret. There was no way she could tell the girls about this—they’d kill her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  IT HAD BEEN A DIFFICULT day for Autumn. The dull-eyed teenagers had been more difficult than usual during her class. One girl had tried to slash another with a shard of brightly colored glass over some imagined misdemeanor and Autumn had struggled to break up the ensuing cat fight. She earned herself some deep scratches down her arms for her pains. Then there were the reams and reams of paperwork to complete that followed such an incident. Some days she wondered why she did this. The teenagers all took the piss out of her cut-glass accent—sometimes good-humoredly other times not. If this didn’t matter to her so much, she could resign tomorrow and go to teach well-behaved little ladies in some posh prep school. But then what would be the point of that? At least at the rehab center she felt as if she occasionally made a difference to one of her clients’ bleak lives—even if it was only to offer them a few hours’ respite.

  Now, all Autumn wanted to
do was go home too, put her feet up, open the box of chocolates that she’d bought from Chocolate Heaven specifically for times like these and listen to some of her New Age music—soothing sounds to wash the cares of the day away. Although her flat was in a smart area, it wasn’t very chic inside. Autumn preferred the homely look, and most of the furniture had been castoffs from one of her parents’ homes. Not that she minded. The pieces were either antiques or held special memories for her from childhood. Perhaps they didn’t match wonderfully with the ethnic pieces she’d collected from her various travels around the world, but it suited her style, such as it was.

  She was just about to leave when Addison Deacon came into the room. He was wearing a black T-shirt, his jacket slung over one of his broad shoulders. He slipped onto a stool behind her. “I heard you had a tough day,” he said.

  “Not one of my best.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he advised her. “Some days the universe simply conspires against you.”

  “Yes,” Autumn agreed earnestly. “It does.” She felt close to tears. There was a lump in her throat and her usual optimism had been swamped by a wave of world-weariness.

  “You look all in,” he commented.

  “I’m very tired,” she admitted.

  “Too tired for dinner?” he asked. “It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. We could pop into that little Italian place at the end of the road for a quick pizza and a glass of passable Chianti.”

  Autumn smiled. “That sounds very nice.”

  “It’s a date then.” Addison stood up. “Are you ready now?”

  “I … er … I have to call my brother first,” she said. “Richard’s staying with me at the moment. He’ll worry if I’m not home soon.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell Addison that it was actually she who was worried about leaving Richard alone in her home for too long. She was fretting herself sick at the thought of what he was getting up to during the day—and half of the night. “Do you mind?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  The tears were too close to the surface for her to begin an explanation without breaking down. Perhaps when she was on the other side of a few of those passable glasses of Chianti, she might take Addison into her confidence. There was a reliable air about him that made her think he was the sort of man she could trust. Unlike her darling brother. “It’s fine,” she said by way of reply. “I’ll just give him a quick call.”

  Richard’s mobile went unanswered. Strange. There was very little that could keep her brother from answering his phone. Autumn tried the landline at the flat and that too rang until it switched to answerphone. “Richard,” she said. “If you’re there, pick up, please.” But he didn’t.

  Autumn nibbled at her lip. “I think I should go home,” she said to Addison. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you sure?” Now he looked worried too. “Is something wrong? Should I come with you?”

  It was tempting, but the fewer people who knew about Richard’s problems the better. She shook her head. “Can we do this another time?”

  “Sure.” Addison stretched as he stood up. “If there was a problem you would tell me, wouldn’t you, Autumn?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course I would.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes. “I have to go.”

  “Me too.” He waved a hand at her. “See you around.”

  “Addison,” she said as he neared the door. “Don’t stop asking me.”

  His face broke into his customary wide grin. “Okay,” he said. Then: “Don’t keep turning me down.”

  She laughed. “I won’t.”

  THE DOOR WAS STANDING AJAR when she reached the flat. Autumn felt the hackles on her neck rise. She pushed away a wave of irritation. It had been the same every night since Richard had arrived—a variety of unknown and shifty-looking men visiting her flat to see her brother. They were knocking for him at all hours of the night. Even though she was supposed to be sleeping, Autumn could hear the gentle tapping on the front door in the wee small hours. Every day she felt she was getting more and more tired from disturbed nights; even upping her chocolate intake had failed to provide a lift to her energy levels. She was going to have to sit down and address some of these issues with Rich if he was going to continue living here. She just couldn’t cope with the way things were. There was no way that she could trust him, and now that meant that she was turning down the offer of a perfectly pleasant dinner with a nice man—the first man to have asked her out in months—so that she could rush home to babysit her brother. This couldn’t continue. Autumn wondered what was really going on in Richard’s life and whether he was taking steps to get his act together or whether he was simply coasting. The more she worried for him, the more unconcerned about his plight he seemed.

  In the living room, a table lamp had been knocked over. She went to it and righted it. The whole place just didn’t feel right. An uneasy feeling prickled over her skin.

  The selection of chocolates sitting waiting on the coffee table seemed to be mocking her; the mocha-colored box with its silky brown ribbon somehow looked out of place now. This was her sanctuary and yet it no longer felt like her own home. Having her brother here and the constant to-ing and fro-ing of his string of acquaintances made her feel as if she was being violated. Was that being melodramatic? Had she simply spent too much time living alone to be able to cope with existing in close proximity with another human being? She just couldn’t imagine putting her feet up and relaxing with Rich skulking around. Perhaps another human being other than her brother might not be so taxing. Her thoughts went again to Addison. Perhaps she should have confided some of her worries to him, after all.

  As she went through to the kitchen, she was greeted by a pile of dirty dishes stacked in the sink. There must have been a dozen used mugs in the bowl. Exactly how many people had been here to see Rich today? He’d clearly heated up some soup for lunch. Two empty Heinz cans sat next to the cooker, two dirty pans were still on the hob and two dishes discarded on the table. More depressingly, there was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table too and two tumblers. But where was her brother now?

  “Rich?” she called out. “Richard!” There was no answer.

  His bedroom door was closed and she wondered if he was in there asleep. She went to the door and listened carefully, but she couldn’t hear any sounds. Gingerly, Autumn opened the door. Sure enough, Richard was curled up on his side, his hair flopping over the side of his face, his arm flopping over the edge of the bed. Autumn stepped back. There was a girl next to him. She was a tiny little thing and was wearing just her underwear—a skimpy pair of pink pants and a white cotton camisole. The girl was stretched out on her back, arm flung above her head. Autumn sighed with relief. Thank goodness she hadn’t opened the door and caught them doing anything else other than sleeping. Then she noticed something odd about the girl. Even in the gloom of a bedroom that had the curtains closed against the daylight, she looked unnaturally pale. Contradicting all of her best instincts, Autumn tiptoed inside the room to look more closely at her. A trail of vomit had spewed from the woman’s mouth onto the duvet cover. Autumn could hear her heart hammering in her chest. This didn’t look good at all. She gently shook the girl’s arm but there was no response. This time she shook harder, but there was still no movement.

  “Rich!” she shouted in panic. “Rich! Wake up!”

  Her brother snorted in the bed and tried to sit up. He stared in Autumn’s direction, his eyes unfocused. He looked like a man who was drunk—but Autumn instinctively knew that it wasn’t alcohol alone that had left him in this state.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he wanted to know. His voice was slurred. “Get out.”

  “Richard,” Autumn whispered. “Your friend’s been sick. I’ve tried to wake her, but she isn’t responding.”

  “She’s fine,” he said dismissively and sank back to his pillow.

  “She isn’t fine,” Autumn snapped. “Richard, wake up. I need you to help me.”


  Her brother forced himself to his elbows. “She’ll be fine,” he said again. “Make her some black coffee.”

  “What’s her name?” Autumn wanted to know.

  Richard sounded affronted. “What difference does that make?”

  “Tell me.” She rubbed at the girl’s hand.

  “Er …” Her brother struggled to search through the filing cabinet of his brain. “Rosie,” he said uncertainly. “It’s Rosie—I’m sure it is.”

  Clearly she was a long-standing acquaintance. “Rosie,” Autumn said, holding the girl’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart.” Her eyes were rolling in her head and her body felt lifeless. “What’s she been taking?”

  “A bit of booze, a bit of coke.” Her brother sounded bored by her line of questioning.

  “She doesn’t look well.”

  Richard sighed and rolled over. He looked at Rosie’s face and then sat bolt upright. “Shit.”

  Her brother’s reaction was enough to tell her that all was not well. “That’s it, Rich, I’m phoning an ambulance.”

  He grabbed at her arm as she went to leave the bedroom and held her back. “You can’t,” he pleaded. “You can’t bring it here. If the paramedics see her like this, they’ll know it was me who gave her the gear.”

  “She’s in desperate need of help. Surely you can see that?”

  “I know. I know.” Her brother leaped out of the bed. He was wearing only his shorts and he released Autumn long enough to hurriedly pull on his jeans. “I can take her in the car. We can leave her at A and E.”

  “You’re in no fit state to drive,” Autumn said. “And we can’t just leave her anywhere.”

  “If we stay with her, then they’ll be asking questions. They’ll want to know who gave her the drugs. They might call the police, Autumn. There’s stuff in this flat that I wouldn’t want them to see.”