Merry-Goes-Round

By Tree Elven

Esmeralda/Merry is a 28-year-old Brit working for Greenpeace and as a second-rate nightclub dancer in Spain's vibrant capital Madrid in the '90s.

Spain is gearing up for the first real two-party election since the Socialists took power after the 40-year conservative dictatorship ended with Franco's death in 1975.

Well-intentioned but naive, Merry gets scandalously caught up in the political tussle while expending her romantic energies on four main men:

- London-based Gregory, a repressed accountant
- Philippe, a moody Parisian who is good in bed but mega-jealous
- Spanish machista and old flame Alfonso
- Graham, Merry’s first cousin, who lives in the States

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tree Elven
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301018680

Tree Elven

Hi there, I'm a British-born writer who has spent most of her adult life in Madrid, Spain, with stints in New York, Glasgow and San Salvador. I currently live and work in London, UK. I read fiction to be informed, entertained, or enlightened. I write fiction to entertain. And to provoke new thoughts/images for the reader. My style? Profoundly superficial. Content and themes? They tend to revolve around comical sexual shenanigans within political situations - lots of farce and romping. Fun but not facile - enjoy!

Book preview

MERRY-GOES-ROUND

by Tree Elven

Smashwords edition, copyright 2012

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Illustration – Lance Tooks

Cover design: Tatiana Vila 

PART ONE

Esmeralda woke with a start, green eyes stretched wide and a hand clutched tightly round her stomach.

It must be Doomsday, she thought, and what a lot I've left undone. Next came a split second of overwhelming relief as she realised that if it was Doomsday, that meant it was all over, there was no more effort to be made. She could float up to the pastel-shaded sky and hang there, shedding slivers of guilt over unfulfilled promises, good but weak intentions.

In fact, as she worked out after a few moments, it was quiet because she was in her parents' home outside London instead of in her Madrid attic, and it was Doomsday because she was meeting Gregory for lunch. After going downstairs to convince herself that she hadn't slept through the precious lunch date and into the following day, she went back to bed and, eventually, to sleep.

* * *

I can't eat all that! she exclaimed a few hours later as her mother piled cheese omelette and ham onto her breakfast plate.

Darling, it's our anniversary, cooed her mother, who was a stockbroker and sharp as nails but cultivated a ditzy actress image. We always have omelette and ham on our anniversary. Besides, you'll eat it.

I'm vegetarian, Mother, protested Esmeralda.

No you're not, darling, you're a demi-veg. Alicia set a bottle of champagne and a Portuguese ceramic jug full of orange juice on the table and contemplated the omelettes proudly. Not one had burnt itself to the bottom of the pan, and only the tiniest bit of coaxing had been needed to lure them out onto the plates.

Her husband looked sideways at his, overcome with emotion. It was the first anniversary omelette in 30 years that didn't appear to have waged a ferocious fight in the pan before emerging, livid with bruises and gaping black wounds, onto the special anniversary plates.

For a few moments, the three gazed in reverent silence at the miracle, then the postman rang and Alicia went out into the porch. Esmeralda pushed a slab of ham out of the window onto the flowerbed below.

Five cards, Ru, announced Alicia, returning with a slight flush.

Been flirting with the postman again? inquired her husband, mildly.

Of course she has, said Esmeralda. She leads him up the garden path.

He's paid to come up the garden path, pointed out Alicia.

Well, I think it's disgusting.

No you don't.

Champagne, girls? intervened Rupert.

Of course! cried Alicia, watching him pour and then standing to raise her glass. To the man who always keeps my glass filled!

Rupert giggled. To the woman who knows how to pop my cork! he retaliated.

Same old chestnuts every year, thought Merry. Oh well, as long as they're happy.

So we'll see you in the restaurant this evening? said Alicia finally.

Yes, yes. Merry kissed her father on the cheek and opened the front door.

And you're having lunch with this weirdo Gregory?

He's not a weirdo, Mother! He just seems, well, a bit weird because he's shy, that's all.

Alicia pecked her cheek and rested a slender hand on Merry's auburn hair for a moment.

You know darling, she said, it's the weirdest ones who are the most boring in the end. It's like cooking: you don't need to do anything fancy, just make sure you've got good, clean, basic ingredients.

Esmeralda set off down the garden path at a half trot, waving goodbye.

She's got a nerve to talk about cooking, she was muttering to herself.

* * *

In a small but highly respected auditing firm just off Regent St., a thin, serious-looking young man hesitated for a moment before knocking on his boss's door. A sharp voice issued a Come in!, he twitched his tie straight and obeyed. Once inside, his manner changed completely. With a manner brisk to the point of brash, he laid a folder on Mr. Sauer's desk and gave the two men present a curt nod each.

Good morning, Mr. Sauer. Here are the Portman accounts you asked to see. Was there anything else?

Mr. Sauer eyed him with disfavour. He disliked briskness at any time of day: it suggested impatience, scamping the work, carelessness --in other words, the last qualities he looked for in his accountants. His irritation was increased by the fact that Gregory Cole's work had consistently met the firm's demanding standards since he'd joined them as an outstanding graduate two years previously.

Thank you, thank you, Mr. Cole, that was all.

There was just one more thing, Mr. Sauer, said Gregory. I would like to take a long lunch break today, if that's not inconvenient.

The two men looked at him in surprise.

Er, well yes, I don't think that should be a problem, er, Mr. Jacobs? Mr. Sauer raised his eyebrows inquiringly at his colleague, who nodded briefly.

Thank you very much. Gregory swung round to leave.

Got a lunch date, eh? remarked Mr. Sauer, venturing into joviality.

I'll be back for the 3.30 p.m. meeting, Mr. Jacobs, said Gregory coldly, and left.

God! exclaimed Jacobs. Humourless little creep, isn't he?

Not half, agreed Sauer, who'd trained at the same college as Jacobs and regarded gossiping as maintaining a friendly interest in his staff's well-being. Good at his job, though. Do you think he really has got a date?

What, him? Not a hope, said Jacobs firmly. Couldn't even bore a girl's knickers off.

* * *

Wearing a hat, which always made her happy, Esmeralda was making her way across Waterloo Bridge, her heart beating pleasantly fast in anticipation of the coming lunch.

* * *

In the Madrid Greenpeace office, colleagues mourned Esmeralda's absence but agreed it was wonderful that her parents were celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary, while waiters at the Turkish restaurant in Soho stropped murky knives against their crotches in preparation for the evening party. Evening parties were the best: guests were nearly always in a good mood, so there were bigger tips, less work and, all in all, more fun to be had.

Murat, the beaming head waiter, thought it was charming. Thirty years of marriage. He knew Alicia Dervish and had no doubt it was all her doing. He looked forward to seeing her dressed for the occasion.

* * *

Up in the Strand, Esmeralda experienced a punch in the stomach when she spotted Gregory examining a thick book in the business section of Hatchard's, where they'd arranged to meet. She went up and touched his sleeve, her heart almost leaping when he turned his earnest gaze on her and smiled.

Hello! ‘In Search of Excellence’ – that sounds good, she said, before seeing that the book was about economics.

It is, very good, agreed Gregory earnestly as she realised her mistake and thrust it back into his hands. If you don't mind holding on a bit, I'm just going to buy it. He picked up ‘Accounting For Taste’ and hurried over to the cash desk. Esmeralda's eyes followed the lines of his body.

Over lunch, he described the subject matter of the books in mind-numbing detail, told Esmeralda all about what his job entailed and how much he earned, slid in a rather slimy comment on the size of her tits, and finished up with a clumsy attempt to invite himself to the party that night. Merry suggested he come along for the dancing at about 11 o'clock.

Thank you, thank you, he said earnestly. It would have seemed a long time to wait until tomorrow to see you again. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, which was fiddling with a fork.

I have to go home and change, Esmeralda reminded him, her cheeks reddening, not so much with a blush as with the pain of having a prong digging hard in the base of her ring finger.

Of course. Gregory nodded understandingly, gave her hand a long, meaningful squeeze that almost drew blood, and stood up. He went back to the office convinced that he'd scored. It seemed unbelievable, but there'd been no mistaking the way she'd gasped when he squeezed her hand. And he was sure he'd seen tears in her eyes as he stood up to leave her...

* * *

Esmeralda half ran home from the Edgware Road Tube station, collapsing in the porch she shared with the downstairs flat amid curses and plastic bags. Too many plastic bags, she reproached herself frantically, searching in her too-large bag for the key to the inner door. There was a scratching noise at the door of the downstairs flat and then it opened.

Shit! exclaimed Esmeralda, under her breath, then raised her head and her voice to greet the upright old lady in front of her. Hello, Grandma.

Shit to you too, responded Hermione. Your language is bloody disgusting. I thought I heard you clattering about. Lost your key again?

No, Grandma, I haven't lost it, said Merry between her teeth, still fumbling desperately in the bottomless pit of a bag.

Why don't you put them all on the one ring? inquired Hermione, infuriatingly. It would save a lot of trouble, wouldn't it?

Actually, I have thought of that for myself.

Then why haven't you done anything about it? Lazy, that's what you are, duckie. Goodness, what a lot of plastic bags!

I know! Esmeralda produced the key at last and gave her grandmother a malicious look. By the way, I didn't see any bottles for me to take to the bottle bank today – you’ve not been mixing your rubbish again, have you?

Of course not, said Hermione, following her up the stairs. Got a man to do it.

Merry dropped her bags and stared.

Who?

Aha! Hermione trotted briskly into the kitchen and began inspecting the cleaning materials under the sink. This one's bleach!

It's old! Merry snatched it away. See? From your last tenant, it was here before. I'd say that as the landlady, you're responsible for that kind of thing, wouldn't you?

How are you going to dispose of it? Hermione persisted.

Merry glared.

Isn't it time you were getting ready for the party, Grandma? she inquired, suddenly solicitous.

That did it. Hermione was dressed already, up to the nines too, trim and elegant as ever, as upstanding a Victorian as you could wish to find.

I see! she snapped, starting off down the stairs. Well, if that's the mood you're in, so be it! It may interest you to know that we're being picked up by my guest...

Your what? demanded Merry, incredulously.

...at 7 p.m. sharp, so don't dawdle. She turned her sharp nose upwards and directed a vindictive glance at her granddaughter. You'd better get moving, Esmeralda, I can see it's going to take you some time to make yourself attractive.

Cow! muttered Merry, as Hermione's fragrance wafted away through the downstairs door. What guest?

She glanced at her watch, calculating how long she could afford to lie in the bath thinking about Gregory before getting dressed. Quite a long time, she decided: for once, she'd been reasonably organised, and her dress was already ironed. The telephone rang just as her hand was reaching for the bathroom door.

Hello, darling! said a male voice.

Esmeralda sat down.

Hello, she replied, cautiously.

Are you missing me? continued the coy voice.

Still feeling her way, Merry tried a non-committal giggle. It seemed to go well.

I'm missing you, said the man, and hung up.

Over in his office, Gregory removed his handkerchief from the mouthpiece of the 'phone and smirked. Romance, that was what she'd want, he reckoned.

Baffled, Esmeralda went to collect clean towels and began running her bath. There were men who called her darling, it was true, but surely she'd recognise their voices by now? Maybe it was a persecution call – some nut who was ‘crazed’ about her, as the papers would say when her slashed body was found in the flat. Hermione, alerting the police because of blood dripping through her ceiling, and no reply to her frantic hammering on the upstairs door...

Oh stop it, she told herself. Probably Hermione's new lover, getting the wrong number. He sounded pretty ancient. Probably gaga.

The Voice rang twice more, dragging her once from the hot bath where she was lying flushed with steam and licentious thoughts, and then again as she was struggling into her green silk dress.

Hello, gorgeous, it said the first time. Your skin's as soft as rose petals. I want to scatter petals down your body, over your pearly skin.

Esmeralda rang off, checked that the front door was locked, and went back to her bath, locking the bathroom door too.

At the other end of the hotline, Gregory mopped some beads of perspiration from his brow and checked the other offices for the 20th time to make sure everyone really had gone home. He couldn't concentrate on his work. Strange things were happening to him. The line about the rose petals had been pretty damn' good, he thought. Pretty damn' good. He went into the office bathroom to relieve himself and then looked at his reflection in the mirror while the flush died out of his cheeks. He remembered Merry's light-hearted laughter at lunch, the way their eyes had held the first time they met, how she'd listened to him, her expressive eyes fixed on his face. The flush mounted to his cheeks again. Amazed and appalled at getting two erections on one Friday afternoon at the office, he scuttled back to his room, closed the door carefully and picked up the 'phone, one hand clasped to his crotch.

Esmeralda had forgotten her bad mood at being interrupted during the rest of her bath. She was pulling on her stockings, enjoying the feel of real silk ones (a present from Hermione, I really shouldn't have been so nasty to her), and looking forward to telling her cousin Graham all about it soon. It was such a shame he couldn't be here too, but then, it was too expensive to fly over from the States, she supposed. Her thoughts flitted back to Gregory. He'd seemed so... eager, so vulnerable, somehow... The 'phone rang. This time the Voice sounded breathier.

Oh baby, it panted, oh darling, you... you make me rise to the occasion.

Gregory slammed down his 'phone with a moan of release. It was so much easier over the 'phone than in the flesh. He was pleased with his efforts to bring romance into Merry's life.

Merry wasn't. She called the police station just opposite and asked Monroe to keep an eye on the house because she'd been getting dirty calls and would be going out later with Hermione and high heels, so I wouldn't be able to run, even, she explained, and Monroe, who'd been a pupil of Hermione's way back when, said no problem, petal, I'll keep an eye out for you.

* * *

At 7 p.m., Alicia, squeezed into silver lurex, slunk into the car at her husband's side and gave a giggle.

Thirty years! she exclaimed. We're doing quite well.

At 7.30 p.m. a vintage car drew up outside Hermione's house and a distinguished-looking old gentleman clambered out. He straightened his artificial hip and bow tie and rang the doorbell.

Good evening, my dear, he said when Merry went to the door. My name is Charles. I've come for Hermione.

Opposite, Monroe watched complacently as the elderly gent was absorbed into the house. He'd caught a glimpse of Esmeralda, radiant in some shimmery green stuff, and he waved back in acknowledgment of her thumbs-up.

He was just settling back and raising a foot to the desktop when a shadowy figure emerged from the garden next door to Hermione's and began creeping round to the garage. In gathering wrath, Monroe swung his chair down onto all four legs and stared while the figure – obviously a man, quite young – raised its face to the living-room windowsill and peeked into the room.

Bloody wee pervert! exclaimed Monroe, reaching for his helmet.

Gregory shrank back into the undergrowth as the laughing trio came out of the house a moment later. A flurry of shiny materials clustered about a grey-clad ramrod back; the car, a 1954 MG TF 1250, started and they were gone.

Gregory peered at his watch. He'd come on a whim and one of next door's rosebushes, driven by a force he'd never experienced before. Normally he didn't pay too much attention to girls, but Esmeralda was different. Divine, untouchable... The now-familiar thrill ran through his body again and he was toying with the idea of filling in time before adjourning to Soho with a bit more whimsicality among the bushes when a large shape loomed up beside him.

'Evening, said a deep voice.

Gregory straightened up with a muffled howl.

Is this your house, sir? inquired Monroe, taking note of Gregory's well-tailored suit and neat haircut.

Er, no, er. The thing is I've, er, just come. To see a friend, improvised Gregory.

I see, sir. Would you mind stepping across the road into the police station now, sir? Just a few routine questions. And a few routine kicks in the kidney if I find you've been threatening the lass, thought Monroe with satisfaction, piloting Gregory across the street.

Well, it'll have to be quick, said Gregory, with an attempt at dignity. I do have to attend rather an important function at 11 p.m.

Near here, sir? asked Monroe, steering him into his modest HQ.

No, no, in Soho, replied Gregory, unguardedly.

I see, sir. Monroe's expert eyes took in the small stains down the front of Gregory's trousers. Aye, the little creep; looks respectable enough, but they're often the most dangerous type, he thought. Now then, sir...

* * *

At Murat's, the lights were on, the music was on, and only the action was missing. As a gesture to a lady who'd brought him plenty of business and several lucrative parties over the years, Murat had invested in hundreds of shiny, pearl-coloured balloons which were festooning the ceiling and would, hoped Murat, lead to an orgy of noisy popping later on. The simple things are best, he congratulated himself, rubbing his hands together smugly while he surveyed the luminous, unreal effect of the balloons, and nearly everyone enjoys pricking balloons. His hands stopped moving suddenly. He changed position and subjected the balloons to another long stare. Then he called over the head waiter, his nephew Kenan.

They don't remind you of anything, do they? he asked, nervously.

Kenan glanced sideways at him.

No, he said, hastily.

Sure?

Well, remind me of what, for example? said Kenan.

Oh, nothing. Nothing really. Okay, get on, get on.

Kenan went back to giving the champagne glasses a final polish. The balloons did remind him of something,