Once I Was A Soldier

Chapter Three

Chapter ThreeNumber 12 Chester Square was a nineteenth-century, five storeys plus basement residence in one of London's most sought-after areas. Melissa moved in the day after the Spencers had vacated Iverson Hall without once thinking of them or their plight. From an agency she engaged a cook, a housekeeper, a maid, and a chauffeur-c*m-butler-c*m-everything else she could think of. She knew nothing of London, but that would not hinder or dampen her determination to fit in and stamp her mark.

In her home town she had never made friends, nor did she at university. Not because she was diffident around people, but because they were inessential to her, an excess not to be indulged. Shy she certainly was not, nor meek, nor timid, being totally preoccupied with herself having no time to recognise peculiarities in order to adapt or see them in others. It would be true to say that she seldom acknowledged that there were in fact others and when she did, those recognised were for her own selfish pleasure not theirs. She was not a virgin, having lost her virginity the first month at university with neither passion nor satisfaction. She collected other s****l partners to rectify those deficiencies and on a few occasions was successful. s*x was another thing that was not essential to her, but the power of her s****l attraction was paramount! The world in which she existed was occupied by only one; herself. Now, having lost both parents, there was no need for Melissa to change and there was no one to rein her in on her perilous journey.

One month to the day after her occupation of the house in Chester Square, Philip, the agency chauffeur, parked her black and burgundy Rolls Royce in front of the row of fashionable boutiques, furniture shops and food halls in Ebury Street, a few minutes' walk from her house. Her unmistakable figure was coming to be recognised in this area, and her money more so.

In David Linley's, a very chic, upmarket furniture emporium, she purchased some home furnishings whilst chatting amicably with the affable owner for half an hour or more during which time many people entered the premises to browse or make inquiries. Melissa noticed one or two of these and later, when she was setting up a delivery account in a recently opened Italian delicatessen a few shops further along, she was not surprised when approached by a man who had seen her inside Linley's furniture shop.

“You seemed to be getting along with David as if you were old friends, but I've never seen you before in his company. Had I of done then I can assure you that I would certainly not have forgotten you. I'm Richard Stanhope, David's partner in the business. And you are?” He offered his outstretched hand by way of a greeting.

“Melissa Iverson,” she said as she gently placed her hand in his. “But I'm afraid I don't know this person David,” she replied decorously.

“The owner of the furniture emporium you were just in. He's the Queen's nephew and the next Lord Snowden. It looked as though you and he were very chummy, but I can't place you! If I'm mistaken then I won't apologise, as it could be my lucky day. I've seen you a few times around here, Melissa. Are you one of our neighbours so to speak?”

“I moved into my late family's house in Chester Square a month ago. I've been busy rearranging the furniture since then. This is a very nice part of London, although having said that, I've not been further than Harrods and Harvey Nicks. Building up my courage to venture into the West End.” A suggestive smile nestled easily on her lips as she replied.

“You need no courage, Melissa. All you need is me as your escort.” He checked his watch then brushing away a lock of blond hair from his forehead said,

“I have an hour free before a boring business meeting I must attend. Let's get your man to drive us around for a bit and I'll show you the shopping highlights nearby. What do you say?” If a lion was to smile before its attack then Stanhope's smile was exactly the same.

There was no intimacy on the journey but Melissa felt aroused on the two occasions Richard leant across her to point out a couple of places that she might find interesting. There was no touching apart from the gentle sway of the motorcar as it turned corners when their shoulders were in brief contact. Finally the car stopped outside an office block in Knightsbridge.

“I will not allow your beautiful company to escape me for long, Melissa. We must meet again. But tell me about you. Where did you learn to be so elegant?” he asked seductively.

Melissa blushed slightly, having only known the hackneyed lines used as a 'pick-up' by students of her own age, never having been confronted by a man in his mid-thirties or so well versed around women.

“I grew up in Yorkshire where my father owned several factories and I spent all my time there,” she replied demurely.

“I always believed that nothing good came from the north. Please don't tell me that all the young ladies of Yorkshire have the same delicious eyes and are as desirable as you. But I'm intrigued, do tell me more. How did you lose the accent?” he begged.

“There's not much to tell. I had elocution lessons when very young so as to lose any northern dialect that may have developed. As to my family, they have all passed on now. Father died quite recently. I'm left on my own to make what I can of life.”

“That's tragic, I must say. Terrible for someone so young! And a heavy responsibility on such perfect shoulders,” he said as he touched her arm in a gentle comforting manner. Melissa returned his smile as her calculating mind clicked on a beat.

“But, hey look, as you are new around here and obviously need to get out and about a bit to make new friends, I have a suggestion. There's a party tonight at a friend's place south of the river. I could pick you up and carry you off to my place where you could select something suitable for me to wear. I'm useless without a woman in charge. Or, if you prefer, we could just stay at mine and dispense with clothes all together and then do what comes naturally. What do you think?” he asked beguilingly with a lascivious smile.

He was handsome, immaculately dressed, probably rich, with persuasive charm delivered in a lyrical voice. Did it matter if he was married or not? He knew the Queen's nephew! Who else would he know and what doors could he open that would otherwise be closed? Entranced as Melissa was by his s****l appeal and obvious experience, there was only one outcome, and it didn't included a crowded party.

“Why don't I come back and pick you up after that meeting. Why wait for tonight, Richard? I'm free all day and if there is a better way to spend it then I can't think of one.”

“Great, how refreshing to meet someone who knows exactly what she wants! We'll get a couple of bottles of Italian and some olives and we're away!”

“I'll put them on my account at that Italian deli. It will be a memorable way to start that account going.” Richard Stanhope didn't argue. It's always pointless to disagree with fools.

That night was spent at Richard Stanhope's Cheyne Walk address in Chelsea, from where she returned to Chester Square in the early morning hours, merely to change clothing then away to his country house in West Sussex for the Saturday and Sunday. In the afternoon of the Monday, Melissa and her new housekeeper were in Jane Asher's premises at Chelsea Green ordering cakes for a proposed party the following weekend. It was her way of trying to ingratiate herself with the immediate neighbours, building up to the succession of hoped-for party invitations she would receive for the Christmas season, when a comely lady of about forty-five years of age approached and introduced herself.

“I'm one of your admirers, you know. Let me introduce myself before you think I'm collecting for charity: Samantha Rodgers. I live almost opposite you at Number 17. I must say you made quite an appearance with that cavalcade of removal lorries and then the liveried delivery trucks. I'm envious of what you must have hidden away inside Number 12. Have you travelled far and are you famous?”

Melissa extended her hand in friendship but the gesture was ignored as Samantha brushed past it, hugging her near neighbour, enthusiastically kissing her on both cheeks as though they were being reunited after some painfully long time apart.

“Number 12 was my family's London home, and no, I'm not famous. For the moment, that is. I wouldn't mind becoming so though,” Melissa explained as she withdrew from the embrace.

“The Iversons come from Yorkshire. I'm Melissa, by the way,” she replied, somewhat embarrassed and flustered.

“So, Melissa, what brings you to relocate to wicked London in the beautifully appointed Chester Square? Family argument, or something scandalous and worth gossiping about? Oh I do hope so. There's been no good scandal doing the rounds for simply ages.” Her chubby, rounded smiling face shone like a star in the middle of the night as she enquired of Melissa.

“Sorry, no scandal, not yet anyway.” Melissa returned her smile with affection.

“My father died a month or so ago following on closely to my mother's death. I had no wish to stay and manage the family's factories, so I'm selling the family estate to pay the death duties and taking over Number 12 as my permanent home. I've got to settle in of course, but I'm throwing a house party on Saturday to get know my neighbours. I was going to do the rounds later tonight and tomorrow with all the invitations. You will come, I hope! You will be the first that I've asked.”

Both women were smiling broadly, which in turn was mirrored by the two assistants in the shop, which Jane, on one of her unexpected visits, remarked on as she drifted past on her way to her office—Nice to see, ladies. Smiling faces are happy faces and happy faces make closed purses open and spend money!

“No wonder you ran away from smelly factories,” Samantha remarked. “What woman wouldn't! A party you say, just try keeping the Rodgers away. I'm dying to see all the furniture you brought with you, plus what came out of the Harrods lorry that was unloading for an hour or more.” Melissa was wondering if charm was a prerequisite to being a resident of the area, but she never reached a conclusion on that matter as Samantha continued. “I can bring some of the others who live around us without you having to go knocking! We have quite a collection of the famous living in the square, you know.”

“No one notorious, I hope,” Melissa replied with that uncommon smile fixed to her face.

“Mick Jagger with Marianne Faithful used to live next to me, but they have moved out now. Apart from him there are a few questionable occupants still around. Questionable in the nicest possible way of course,” and again her face shone brightly with laughter, but this time she remarked about it.

“You are damaging all my good work, young lady. The beauty treatment I'm having to take away the laughter lines around my eyes will be ruined if I keep going at this rate.” She tried to keep a straight face, but failed. “Shall I spread the word of your party to all, regardless of good and wholesome reputation? I'll throw in some of the less reputable as well. That could lead to a fun night.”

By this time any attempt by Melissa at remaining taciturn or reticent in reply had fallen before Samantha's jovial appeal and cordial approach as she offered no resistance to her newfound friend's volunteered help. She welcomed it with widespread arms.

“I was thinking of about fifty guests. Would that sound right to you?” she asked.

“Sounds idyllic to me, dear girl. I'll pop in later to discuss the list if you want. We could have a grand old natter about Yorkshire at the same time! I bought some Yorkshire tea once. Very nice it was too. What time would be convenient?”

“Shall we say three pm? I'll get my housekeeper to serve some of these delicious cakes your eyes keep falling on, Samantha.”

“Not too many! You obviously have no need to watch what you eat, but us oldies with an ever-widening waistline, certainly do!”

“Incidentally, Samantha? Is there a local gym I could use? One where it's good to be seen? I need to get around in meeting all the right people.”

“Not just the 'right' ones, surely not! Mix in some wrong 'uns too, adds to the enjoyment. There's the one that Princess Diana uses in Chelsea Harbour. It's called Waterside, I think. Anyone who's anyone goes there apparently, but be careful of those musclebound hunks I'm told you can find plastered around the walls. I doubt they will be after you for lessons on that piano I saw delivered.”

“My, you are an observant one, Samantha,” Melissa replied, thoroughly enjoying being spoken of and noticed.

“No! The right word to use is nosey, but I have to be. My husband is the Conservative Member of Parliament for Putney. It pays to watch carefully where you tread in his business and I like to steer him away from stepping in any dogs' poo, if you get my drift.”

“I do indeed, but as I very much doubt that there are many dogs in this part of London that would dare poo on the pavement you must have plenty of spare time. Why don't the two of us go to this Waterside gym together one day, Samantha? I would welcome your company.”

“You don't want me, my dear. Nor would they! I'd make a poor advertisement for their facilities if seen walking out the door.” Both ladies burst into laughter and at the same time the girls behind the serving counter did so too. Jane shifted in her office chair and smiled ever so slightly.

* * *

A little after three pm that day Samantha Rodgers became the first visitor to Number 12 as she was cordially welcomed into Melissa's plush, well-appointed residence and entertained in the first-floor sitting room. The ground floor one, Melissa explained, was still being furnished. She was given a tour of the house, enthusiastically remarking on her host's taste in decor and in particular the size of Melissa's bed.

“My, that's a huge area going to waste if you're occupying it alone, my dear. Or, have I missed something and you have already snared a beau to share your sheets?”

“That's an ancient expression; a beau!”

“It is, isn't it. I was trying to hide my shame in suggesting that your chauffeur may be doubling up on his job! He's quite a hunk! If I was your age I'd bed him in seconds,” she announced unashamedly.

“Well, I haven't, nor am going to,” she replied humourlessly, which drew a look of disappointment from her new friend's face. She fashioned a warm smile in order to reassure her friend.

“I have interests elsewhere, and although I have yet to invite him here I do know what to expect if I did!”

“You are a sly thing, aren't you, and quick on the draw. Will I be seeing him at this shindig we're to arrange?”

“You will indeed, but perhaps you already know him. He has business interests not far from here.”

They were descending the stairs when the conversation took on a more solemn tone, one that a woman less self-absorbed than Melissa would have handled completely differently.

“Not only sly, but convenient with choice! Rich and a Chelsea resident! Well, the two go together really, don't they? I thought it must be someone from your home town or at least from the north.”

“I just took advantage of the opportunity. His name's Richard Stanhope. He's a partner of David Linley, the Queen's nephew, at David's furniture establishment in Ebury Street. I started at the top, as it were.” She smiled at her guest as though she wore the cat's whiskers above her top lip. The smile wasn't returned.

“Is that what he said, was it; partner of Linley's? Did he say that he had a place in Chelsea and did he mention an estate near Burgess Hill, in West Sussex?”

The self-congratulatory smile disappeared instantly on hearing of her neighbour's knowledge. She feared what was to come. She had reason to.

“Oh dear! Let's have that cup of tea while I educate you about the Stanhopes of this world. I'm afraid your bubble is about to burst, Melissa my dear,” earnestly Samantha replied.

For some of us it's the things that are closest to our heart that become the most frightening to reveal. That's where the pain lies along with the mistakes that, wish as hard as we might, cannot be changed. In that palpable place, they cling together forming an abscess that constantly throbs but can't be silenced. The treatment for an abscess is simple; slice it open and drain the poison away. Is that the remedy for those hidden away shameful nightmares? To shout them out and face the consequences? Or, would it be better to let them fester until they burst as inevitably they must? If derision has a price to subdue then how much would you be willing to pay to suppress it? It wasn't long before Melissa was required to answer that monetary question.