The Unreliable Placebo Read online

  "I was just about to ring you," I say guilelessly.

  "Oh yeah, 'course you were!"

  "No really! I thought maybe we could meet up one evening and have a laugh. I really enjoyed seeing you again and chatting. Not to mention the slap on the bum you gave me. I'm still rubbing in baby oil to soothe the vivid red hand shaped mark. It feels like Fifty Shades." I've never in fact read the book nor less even seen the film but this sounds about right.

  "Oh you liked it did you?"

  "Well actually I was…."

  "Good. And as to going out, I've got just the thing coming up. I've been invited to a dinner and dance by the MD of a company I want to develop a game for. And I thought you'd make the perfect partner to impress this guy."

  "Well I don’t know. I was thinking of a quiet drink somewhere so we could pick up on old times." Hasn't he got a wife or girlfriend he could take to some boring business do I think. But then I haven't, or the equivalent so….

  "No, no, no. We can do that another time. I need arm-candy for this gig and you're the business."

  "Arm candy!" I don’t know whether to be flattered or appalled. I feel I'm losing track of this conversation and where it's leading. "I'm not sure…."

  He names an hotel in Chelmsford and the date. It's next week. Next Friday. "You're not doing anything are you? If so, cancel it. This is a must."

  "Is it?" I say weakly. "Right. Er….what'll I wear?" I'm a bit short on ball gowns. The Arsehole and I didn’t go in much for scoffing and trotting.

  "No worries. I'll sort something out."

  "But…."

  "I clocked your vitals from the other night and we supply software to a firm that designs women's stuff. They'll come across with a few nice outfits. Just get there early, about six, and you can try some on."

  "Yes but, I mean I'll need to go home to shower and things….and there's the traffic and what if…."

  "Stop fussing. I'll book a suite. You can do all the primping and tarting up you want. The actual event doesn’t start until eight thirty or nine."

  "But I mean….does that mean….will I be…?" I want to ask if the intention is to spend the night at this hotel and whether I'll have my own bedroom. I'm not sleeping with Simmsey! No damn way! If it turns out like that, I'll holler for the management to get me a taxi.

  "So that's agreed then. Good. I'll send you an email with a link to get directions to the hotel and a bit of information about the company. There'll be others on the table trying to win this contract, so I'm depending on you Annie-Girl."

  "Well I suppose….yeah…."

  "Good," he says again. "Sweet dreams then." And he rings off. Just like that. I put the phone back on the bedside. I find I'm wringing my hands. I've no idea what I've let myself in for. It feels a bit like Milton and his presumptions though they were the result of an unjustified over-developed ego. Simmsey wasn't like that. If he’s gone a bit strange, or to be really fair more strange, and lost his abilities to read situations correctly and acts inappropriately as a consequence, then it would have to be the outcome of his over-indulgence in cannabinoids.

  Or, horror of horrors, after meeting me in a bar with a man I obviously hardly knew, he’s formed the view that I now operate as a high class call girl in my spare time. Or worse, a low class one. But that of course is nonsense. Has to be. I chuckle to myself and think about texting him and saying: “Actually I charge by the hour” just for a laugh but I don't. Just in case he takes it seriously. I save his number and start looking forward to an evening out.

  I quickly write down the name of the hotel before I forget it and then look it up on google and forthcoming events and it does at least turn out that they have a dinner and dance next Friday. I look at the prices of the suites and it's eye-watering, to a person of my modest earnings anyway. Well I think, I wasn’t doing anything next Friday and it sounds like a posh enough do. I'll be getting a ball gown loaned to me from a firm that apparently designs them so I won't have to whip out one of my old Matalan frocks and spend an evening cutting the bobbles off the cheap material or mending it where it's come adrift or poncing it up by sewing sequins on to make it look more upmarket.

  Yes, why not. I mean I don’t recall Simmsey being so forceful in the past. It's a bit worrying. I do know people change. I haven't seen him since we were both about twenty-one at a party in our home town when I was back from uni for the summer working at a McDonalds (I quite liked it actually. I rather wish I'd stayed there and taken the management courses on offer. Who knows, I might have been an area manager by now or I might even have branched out and be owning my own chain of fast food establishments and making a fortune instead of….oh well never mind). Simmsey to my recollection wasn’t doing anything useful at the time. He was sitting in a corner giggling and sharing spliffs with other like-minded individuals, people actually I'd never seen before but whom he had apparently met at the local tech he attended seemingly spasmodically where however he apparently learned to program, leading to his building up in due course a viable enterprise and earning a lot of money (as I might have done if I'd stayed at McDonalds).

  OK so he's now well off and apparently reputable but you do have to worry whether the amount of marijuana he consumed may have had some deleterious effects. You know, it might have numbed or blunted some of his finer senses, his ability to read situations and know what's appropriate. I start worrying again that Simmsey’s may have got it into his skank-befuddled brain that I'm some sort of call girl. If he tries anything, I'll just have to disabuse him of that view. As I'd found earlier in the year, perhaps a sharp connection of my high-heeled pointy-toed shoes with his soft, trouser-encased gentleman equipment would get the message over clearly enough, though in the previous case it was trainers combined with a four mile run induced epinephrine spike that did the trick. Perhaps an evening of heavy dancing will have the same effect if the worst was to happen.

  As I drift off to sleep, I wonder how Simmsey thinks he knows my email address. He said he was going to email me. The Baileys has kicked in and I’m obviously not firing on all cylinders. Of course he’ll get it from my firm’s website. But then he doesn't know my married name either. How’ll he track me down to my firm at all without my surname? How in fact did he know my mobile number? But this is getting too difficult and within another thirty seconds I’m fast asleep.

  I'VE FOUND THE HOTEL without difficulty and there were no hold ups on the A12 for a change so I'm not late. I drive my kranky Citroen round the back to the car park and find that there's a barrier. In fact the car in front of me can't get in and after an obviously unsatisfactory exchange with an intercom on the upright of the barrier, it fails to gain admittance. It backs up nearly colliding with my car and turns round. I see the driver's angry red face through the windscreen as the car races past me back onto the road and zooms off at high speed.

  I worry whether I'll be worthy to gain access or similarly impeded and turned away but the management must have my car registration number which I'd emailed to Simmsey at his request. The barrier is soon raised and I cruise into the hallowed and clearly exclusive grounds of the Chelmsford Monaco Hotel. I feel deeply honoured. I park and take out my overnight case which I've packed and brought with me just in case I need to stay the night and Simmsey has arranged a separate bedroom for me otherwise later I'll be off by whatever means suitably presents itself.

  There's a doorman at the rear entrance which looks for all the world like a front entrance with pillars, a canopy and steps up to huge quadruple glass doors. The doorman smiles cheesily and opens the door for me though he doesn’t take my case or call a bell hop. He clearly recognises an item from the Tesco hand-luggage selection when he sees it. However it's not heavy and I don’t have to stagger through the doors and the rear foyer to the check-in desk. I walk straight and upright seeing cameras at all angles clocking my every move.

  The girl at the desk takes my name. She then picks up the phone and says to whoever it is at the other end that his or her gu
est is here (I can only hope that it is Simmsey) and I'm directed to the lifts further across the foyer. I mutter my thanks and start to walk away then I suddenly think: Actually, where am I going?

  "Excuse me," I say turning back, "but could you tell me the room number I'm supposed to be going to and the name of the booking."

  She looks at me strangely. "Mr. Ebenezer Simms. Room 402." You can see why he wanted us to call him Simmsey, though perhaps now in adulthood he’s managed to turn his Christian name to his advantage somehow. I have no head for business but others clearly spot opportunities that just pass me by entirely and good luck to them.

  "Oh thanks." I'm still apprehensive but Simmsey's my old mate. I have to trust him. In fact as I've accepted this uncertain assignment and I'm here now, I suppose I must trust him. I've very little choice. Of course I could turn around, I think as I walk into the lift, and go home and perhaps I should. But actually even if all this is a bit strange and uncertain, I definitely want to go ahead with it. Even if I am a pawn on Simmsey's gameboard, I'd like to enter the fray and see what's to do.

  I ARRIVE TREMBLING, breathless and on time at the door of the suite and knock quietly and discreetly. Unexpectedly, a strange man answers. He's thin and be-suited. He bows to me dramatically and says in a mid-Atlantic accent with a camp manner:

  "Oh do come in Ms. Duke. The team are ready for you."

  I crane my neck round the door and see an army of people assembled looking in my direction. I'm seriously worried. They have a pack-like appearance. Are they going to pounce on me once I'm in the room and tear me to shreds? Or will they devour me whole? They all bear implements of one kind or another and they don’t all look harmless. Not by any means. I swallow hard.

  "My name's Shaun," says the man at the door. "I'm your host for the preparation period. There's no need to be nervous. The team are very experienced. They've done this hundreds of times before. You'll have a very good chance of being picked. Do come in."

  Picked for what? What is it they've done a hundred times?

  "Where's Simmsey?" I utter as I edge into the room, a worried frown on my brow. Shaun looks at me uncomprehendingly.

  "Mr. Simms?" Still no reaction.

  "Ebenezer?"

  "Oh. Of course! Our Lord and Master is still working in another room. Just relax and allow our team to do their magic and render you without equal!"

  "Do I have a separate room? My own bedroom?" I stutter.

  Shaun smirks. "Well that's for Ebenezer to know and me to speculate!" he croons.

  I'm growing tired of this silly role-play, at least on his part. "Look," I say, "just tell me where to put my case and then I'll have a bath and get ready if you'd leave my dress out for me. Thank you!"

  "Anna. Please," he purrs. "Just relax and surrender yourself to the experience. Others have and have benefitted enormously. It's a huge privilege. Your future could be mapped out tonight forever. The opportunities are boundless! The rewards unquantifiab…"

  "Please I'm not interested in all that. Just let me have a proper bath. I'm quite tired. I've been working all day and this nonsense is making me angry. I'll look at the dresses when I've had my bath. Show me to my bedroom or I'll leave! NOW!"

  "Well," Shaun huffs at me, "if you have to be like that! Come this way." And he turns on his heel and flounces off across the hotel room. He has a pony tail and a distinct swing of the hips from behind. Look under any ponytail, I think, and you’ll find an arsehole. I grab my Tesco valise and follow him through the wardrobe and make up crew who are regarding me uncertainly now and looking less predatory as I pass them by. He minces towards a door, opens it, gives me a scathing look, another huff and walks off again. I escape into the room, shut the door behind him and examine it for signs of Simmsey. Seeing no evidence, I feel somewhat reassured.

  It's a nice room with french doors leading onto a balcony overlooking an attractive garden. I turn to the other side of the room and there's a door which I assume leads into the bathroom. Before I investigate that, I check the wardrobes for evidence of male occupation. I mean I don’t expect to find a man actually in there but men's clothing would have worried me considerably. Finding none however, I start to relax. There's a jug of water and glasses on a small table. I'm thirsty not having had any liquid since my four p.m. cup of tea. I pour a glass and take a large slug.

  It's only six thirty. I've got plenty of time to have a relaxing bath and then see what evening wear is on offer. If these people outside, hovering like an army of drones, wish to arrange and package me in some order to suit themselves - and presumably Simmsey - I shan't care so much once I've washed away the cares and worries of the day. My uptightness will have dissipated to some extent and I'm surprised that Shaun, if he's anything of a seasoned experienced host, doesn't appreciate how most people feel on a Friday evening at the end of a working week. They don’t want to be regimented into….whatever it was he had in mind.

  I see that there's every kind of pampering aid in this bathroom, lock the door and turn the taps on. On the wall opposite there's a huge mirror. I hope it's not a two way mirror I semi joke to myself. I can't believe it would be though. I climb in and after five minutes, it's so relaxing I want to fall asleep. I really do start to drift off, but suddenly a disembodied voice calls softly in a sing-song voice over the airwaves:

  "One of Nine. Wake up One of Nine. You have work to do."

  I cast about for the source of this imperative. I recognise Simmsey's voice. I know he must be watching me in the bath and I realise at that moment that whatever Simmsey has planned for tonight, I have almost zilch chance of escaping it. I sink further down into the soapy warm water for a final flannel around my oxters and so on as I scan the room for hidden cameras and try not to present too much frontal aspect to the mirror when I get out of the water. I rush to put on the soft towelling robe, envelope myself in it and rub myself dry with that.

  As I emerge from the bathroom and my bedroom into the suite twenty minutes later, a smiling oriental woman in a cross between a kimono and a kaftan greets me holding up an outfit for my consideration. It feel like a Bond film. One of those scenes where I have a vague idea that doom awaits me, but I play along notwithstanding because I have no alternative and every confidence that 007 will effect a rescue in the nick of time.

  Except that I have no confidence at all. I have no reason to hope that before my fate, whatever it's to be, overtakes me, that a gentleman of Her Majesty's Secret Service will leap out of the wooden panelling, grab me, take me to one of the balconies and abseil to the ground with me clinging to his trouser waist band. Even for me, the daydreams are getting a bit ridiculous and I start to wonder what might have been in that jug of water, but I'm also feeling golden too and ceasing to care what happens.

  Nothing of the sort occurs anyway and I try on one costume after another. They all have the same overall theme. Skin tight, cut out in various places, short to the point of indecency and incorporating integral pointy support of the kind I wore on my internet date when I was accidentally reunited with Simmsey after so many years. I imagine that's what was behind the reference to One of Nine. Oh dear, I think and giggle.

  And rather as I'd feared, when a particular costume was being zipped up my admittedly taught and toned body and I was put before the full length mirrors on three sides of a small space in one corner of the suite, Simmsey's voice suddenly spake unto us from above saying: This attire is the most suitable garment for this evening's exercise. I cock an ear in the direction of the sound but can't locate the source, let alone see Simmsey so that I can talk to him directly. If I didn't feel so mellow from whatever substance was in the bedroom jug of water, I might have started whining and complaining why doesn't he make a proper appearance, but I’m just not bothered.

  Having settled on a dress for this ordeal I'm to have to endure, the crew get started on the rest of me. Some depilation takes place; arms, legs, moustache. I'm glad to say that the beaver is left unmolested. My hair is blow dried and
then whipped into a frenzy by Shaun who swears assiduously throughout as my wild unruly locks refuse to succumb. Gallons of spray is applied to the problem and the air becomes almost unbreathable. I'm offered a drink of something sweet and unrecognisable which I don’t refuse. My defences seem to be down. I don’t know why this should be but I feel relaxed without feeling limp or wobbly. Mentally relaxed but physically robust. Energised in fact.

  Whatever I've been given I'll have to get some more of it. The film "Limitless" springs to mind. That's how I feel. That I can do anything. I challenge Shaun to a game of chess (I've never played but I'm sure I could beat anyone just now) but he scoffs at me. Then he whispers something in the ear of the Asian woman. I have super-sensitive hearing, or that’s what it feel like. I could hear a pin drop in the foyer four floors down. "It's working." That's what he said. I should be alarmed but I know I can overcome any shit that might be thrown at me tonight. After all, earlier in the year, I kick-boxed a man's goolies (or rather gooly) to a pulp. And I wasn’t even on what I'm on tonight.

  "Tonight, I am invincible!" I say in a Russion accent, Boris style. My character must be Zenia. Zenia Onatop. Yes. Onatop.

  "It's definitely working," Shaun repeats not bothering this time that I can hear. He's lucky, I think. Being gay, we won't get into a clinch and therefore I won't need to crush the life out of him with my legs as I have a monumental orgasm in the manner of Onatop. No. Simmsey will be the recipient of such attentions. Simmsey who has invited me here on the pretext of an ordinary dinner with possibly some competitive element but it wasn’t supposed to involve me. Now however I know for sure that it does. I'm to be picked for something and I'm determined not to fail in this mission. It would be handy to know what the mission actually is but I feel sure I'm equal to just about anything.

  My hair having been teased and glued into whatever design Shaun had in mind, I have my arms legs and any other parts of me visible, which is frankly, most of me, chemically tanned. The Asian lady expertly applies makeup to my face. I have no idea what this looks like. I'm not allowed near any of the mirrors now. My feet are forced into impossibility high heels.