"Now is it bihovely thyng to telle whiche been the sevene deedly synnes, this is to seyn, chiefaynes of synnes. Alle they renne in o lees, but in diverse manneres. Now been they cleped chieftaynes, for as muche as they been chief and spryng of alle othere synnes."
 (Chaucer)
 

We deal,  in this profoundly moral tale, with the sin of Avarice. (Moral or not, clothes will be shed, eager young bodies will be passionately fondled, tongue will seek out dripping probing tongue and silky smooth SKIN will be exposed to view.)

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PART THE FIRST
 

Veronica Harmsworth  was not as happy as she would wish. She had a two bedroom flat in Hampstead High Street, the result of a legacy consequent upon the death of a rich aunt, and  a good job in the City. BUT. Times were hard nowadays. Working in the Square Mile was rather like being in the trenches on the Western Front. People all round her were falling. Of course, they did not die when they fell - merely collected handsome redundancy packages, but it was still a sort of death.  Her own time might come sooner than she thought.

A year ago her life had been hectic but carefree, a daily round of frenzied dealing and lunchtime and evening conviviality. Now it was different. There was less to do, but no one wanted to look idle. Liquid lunches had been eschewed and all stayed late at the office, despite having so little to do. It was not a nice life. How she longed to be out of it all!

That was why the little notice in the local free newspaper caught her eye.  “Independence! Freedom! No more nine-to-five! Be a millionaire/ess!”

There was a telephone number to ring. Veronica picked up the phone and keyed in the number. Engaged. Well, it bloody would be, wouldn’t it! She tried three more times with the same result. Oh, well! Probably a hoax anyway! One more go! “Brr Brrrng Brrrng Hello, how can I help?”

“Oh!” Veronica had hardly expected to be successful and was temporarily at a loss.

“I’m phoning about the ad in the Camden News. About being a millionairess! I think it might suit me, actually! I suppose it‘s all a joke, but I‘m so bloody fed up with life right now, I‘m game for anything!”

 “Game for anything, eh?” replied the thin reedy voice on the other end of the line. It was the kind of antediluvian tone that could be coming from another age.

“Well - I’ve spoken to a few people already, but I didn’t much like the sound of any of them. You sound like a breath of fresh air. Half of those other buggers were bloody foreigners - cheeky sods! May I have your address and phone number? I‘ll be in touch in the next few days.”

She did as the old gentleman requested, giving him her details, and replaced the telephone, her heart aflutter with a strange excitement. She told herself it was all nonsense. But there was something in the back of her mind that KNEW she was on the brink of opportunity and great adventure.

She looked at her antique grandfather clock. It was ten-thirty. Time for a quick one at the “Flask”. She pulled on a sweater. It was early in the month of April and the evenings were still a little on the chilly side. In a few minutes she was at her destination.
 

She pushed her way through the door of her favourite pub. Somehow, as she looked around the familiar bar, the place seemed pregnant with life. The very smoke-filled air around her reeked not only of stale beer and tobacco, but of adventure. Even the ever drunken and ever aggressive Bertha, that raddled blonde with the chip on her shoulder, was unable to jolt her out of the euphoria which she had experienced ever since speaking to the old man on the phone.

As luck would have it, there were none of her usual friends here tonight. She took her drink over to the large round table in the corner and a man asked politely if he might join her. She smilingly assented and he sat in one corner, immediately taking out a book, into which he buried himself, leaving Veronica alone with her thoughts.

Of course this thing was just a hoax of some kind! People just don’t go around handing out  one million pounds to perfect strangers. She had met a few millionaires in her time and they were as tight-fisted a bunch of skinflints as ever walked the earth! Of course, there were exceptions to every rule. Maybe someone with more money than he/she knew what to do with,  or someone with a stricken conscience was finding a way to do a bit of good to someone.

As she continued to muse about the future, she noticed that the man opposite was casting surreptitious glances at her. She began to feel awkward,  finished her drink and left, noting that the fellow had returned to his book. Funny. She hadn’t seen him before and at this time of night, most of the customers were regulars.

That night she was tormented by strange dreams. In one of them, she found herself in the middle of a huge field and running  for her life to escape from mortal danger.  If only she could reach the fence and jump over in time she might escape, but fast as she ran, the sound of pursuit grew louder and the refuge seemed to be no closer. When she woke up she was sweating and the bedclothes had fallen in a heap onto the floor. She had  awakened late and would have to forgo her morning jog. This put her in a bad mood for the day.

As her day wore on, events did nothing to improve her spirits. Work was as flat as ever. Business was dead as the dodo and she knew that she would be sitting around trying to look busy for very little longer. Almost certainly she would figure in the next round of redundancies and the soul destroying task of finding another, and almost certainly less remunerative,  job would begin.

When she returned home, there was a letter waiting for her. She did not recognise the writing and opened it wondering who it was from. It was on Savoy Hotel notepaper. After reading the first few words, she had to sit down.  It was from the mysterious would-be benefactor!

 “Dear Miss Harmsworth” it started. “With regard to my recent advertisement and your kind expression of interest, I wonder if you would be good enough to visit me at the above address on Wednesday week. I look forward greatly to meeting you.

Yours sincerely,

Andrew Vane-Clatworthy.”

Andrew Vane-Clatworthy! Veronica knew all about him! Did she ever know all about him! The grandson of a Victorian entrepreneur who had turned on its head the old dictum about rags to riches to rags in three generations!  He had come into control of the family businesses in his twenties and massively increased their turnover. Golly! He must be pretty ancient by now! Hadn’t been seen in public for years, but was still rumoured to control his multifarious business empire with a rod of iron! And HE was the man who was giving away money by the million! Wonders never cease!

She got onto the phone immediately to James Clarkson, a contact of hers, reputed to have forgotten more about the world of business and finance than any ten others knew between them. Thank goodness he was in tonight!

“Hi,  there James, Veronica here!….Yes I know it’s been a long time…………we really must get together sometime…. Left it too long. Actually I had a reason for phoning (when did she ever NOT have a hard practical reason for phoning her friends!). It’s about Andrew V-Clatworthy. What’s he been up to lately and what sort of a guy is he? I know he’s a legend, but a recluse. Anything you could tell me to put flesh on the bones, so to speak? It really would be appreciated old sport!”

Several minutes later she put down the phone, very little the wiser than when she had picked it up. The old man had been rumoured to be in poor health and depressed that he had no suitable heir to pass his empire on to after his death. It seemed that one of the largest major concerns to be in family hands would soon pass into the control of the faceless men. But - added James, he was not thought to be about to pop off just yet! One thing did worry her. Although par excellence a man of his word who had never been known to go back on any agreement whether written or verbal, he was thought to have a mischievous and almost sadistic streak in him, showing itself in a love of practical joking. Just what I thought, mused Veronica.

Five days remained before her appointment. She tried to contain her impatience and concentrate on the ever more dreary round of work and leisure, aching to know how her meeting would turn out.

PART THE SECOND

At long last Wednesday dawned and Veronica was standing in the foyer of the Savoy Hotel. A flunkey appeared and escorted her to Vane-Clatworthy’s suite. He ushered her in and left, closing the door silently behind him.  The old man was sitting in a very comfortable looking armchair and motioned Veronica to sit opposite him on a  rather less comfortable chair.

“A young woman like you doesn’t need too much ease, not like arthritic old me!” he chuckled wheezily.

She looked at this living legend closely, although at the same time trying not to stare rudely. She was a good mannered girl - always had been. He was certainly old and she could see that his reference to arthritis was no passing quip. The poor man was obviously crippled by this most distressing of maladies.  But, old and infirm though he was, there was nothing feeble about the way he looked at her out of those pale blue eyes. He was obviously a  man who missed nothing and was used to being obeyed. He motioned again,  this time towards a drinks cabinet, and she saw again how terribly deformed his fingers were.

“Get us both a drink, my dear. If you wouldn’t mind, that is. It’s such a devil of an effort to move an inch some days. Sorry not to be doing my duty as a host!”

Veronica murmured that she was delighted to help and did as requested. The old financier opted for a gin and tonic and Veronica for a mineral water. She was not a great imbiber, and despite her necessary conviviality, she never indulged in the way so many of her male (and female) colleagues were wont to do.

She sat down again, sipping occasionally and waited for him to come to the point. This he did with no further ado.

“Well, young lady. I am a busy man and you are a busy woman. I am willing to give you the sum of one million pounds on condition you perform a series of tasks for me a week from today. I will send you instructions in good time. I never go back on a bargain and I think I can say the same of you. Straight as a die - saw it the minute you walked through the door. Shake hands and we’ll meet again after your task is done.  Remember to make the whole day free a week from now!”

Veronica grasped his deformed hand as gently as she could by way of sealing their bargain and her strange host rang a bell by his side. She soon found herself back in the Strand, at last believing that a fortune was soon to be hers!  One worry at the back of her mind was about the nature of the tasks she would be asked to perform. She hoped they would not be too hard, but she was a resourceful young lady and felt quietly confident, if slightly nervous.

She went back to work and applied herself to her duties, with half her mind on the future. Soon she would be leaving all the uncertainties of this world of economic down-turn and redundancy threats. What would she do with the money? She would certainly not be content with investing it and living on the interest. Not likely! This would be the springboard to some kind of business enterprise of her own! She spent the six days before her appointment with destiny going over a variety of options. On the whole she was inclined to leave England and invest in some kind of tourist/leisure enterprise in Spain or Portugal. The fact that she had a task to perform before all this could be realised was increasingly irrelevant as far as she was concerned. She would be up to whatever he wanted her to do!

PART THE SECOND

And finally, the great day was here! She woke that morning feeling sick with fear. What if she blew it and ended up at the end of the day in the same hole as at the beginning? She was shaking so much that it took her twice as long to get ready as usual. She decided not to go for customary morning exercise run today. Her instructions might arrive while she was still out of the flat.

At six - fifteen the doorbell rang. She answered the bell and was handed a package by a uniformed representative of one of the more superior kind of delivery firm. She had  to sign for the package. She took the parcel inside and opened it. Inside there was a letter which she opened and read. The rest of the package consisted of shoes and clothes and one small packet. The letter told her that she was to dress in these clothes and no other.

SO! Off came the clothes she had so recently put on. Off came the tights and the smart business suit and the sensible shoes and even more sensible underwear. On went the most awful clothes she had ever worn in her life!

Instead of ordinary underwear, nice navy blue comfortable passion killers, she was supposed to don some form of swimwear. Totally unlike any swimming costume she had ever worn before! Usually she favoured one-piece swimsuits,  of a conservative cut,  which failed to accentuate those fine thighs of hers - or any other of her not inconsiderable charms. This two piece bit of exiguousness was something she would not as a rule be seen dead wearing! The top was not too bad, although it did fail to cover her breasts in the way she would have liked and in some mysterious way accentuated her cleavage in a manner completely new to her. None of her previous clothes had ever done this for her!

Her twin mammary glories were more glorious than she could ever remember them as she contemplated the effect in her bathroom mirror. The two bosoms seemed about to burst out of the restraining fabric at any second and as she moved she saw them almost ripple. How could she go out like that? Looking like a tart?

It seemed that her day was about to include a visit to some swimming facility. If this were indeed so then she would probably cause a near riot! The colour was not to her liking either. Such a bright - almost fluorescent -  shade of red. As for the bikini bottom, once she had worked out how to put it on, she realised, as she stroked her posterior,  that it was what is called a “thong”. She had heard of these things before and even seen, to her disgust, a woman wearing one once. And now she was wearing one herself and probably going to be seen in public so doing! And the same shade of red - what there was of it. Ghastly!

She continued to gaze at herself with increasing horror. The material was strong enough, but of an amazing delicacy and subtlety of texture. Each individual curl of her pubic hair seemed to be bursting through the material and announcing its presence to the world with shameless, brazen pride.

Having put on her underwear for the day, she turned her attention to the remainder of her clothing, but before she could put them on she noticed the other smaller package and opened it. It was a make up kit. Veronica did not habitually wear a lot of make-up and certainly nothing like the lipstick and nail varnish that this kit contained. Red was obviously to be the theme of the day - and how!!

She carefully put on the lipstick and stepped back a step to look at the effect. She almost fell through the floor. The natural pallor of her face showed up the bright red lipstick  to great effect. No chance of passing  virtually unnoticed today!

She had not worn eye make up for years - not since she had been a slightly giddy teenager, and so had to take more care over this.

It was the toe and fingernails that caused her particular distress. She was not one to adorn these particular parts and certainly not with the garish tints that now bedecked them.

She looked at the letter again. Oh dear. She had a horror of having her hair cut, (Couldn’t stand people touching her)  but she never wore it long - always tightly done up. Now she was bidden to let it fall down about her shoulders and half way down her back, almost to her posterior. Some girls would have loved to have such a profusion of golden hair, but Veronica, the undemonstrative and perennially understated Veronica, was not keen to advertise her charms so blatantly. As she stared at herself, she hardly recognised what she saw. Something inside her stirred and it was mainly, but  not entirely,  shame.
 
Well! So much for the make-up and underwear. Now to don the outer garments. Such as they were!
 
 
 

PART THE THIRD

Veronica Harmsworth had just been given a parcel of clothes to put on, before embarking on a day of trial which, she hoped, would see her at the end, a rich and independent woman. A woman of substance.

The underwear had pained her greatly. It was swimwear - of a somewhat unusual sort. The kind of thing some bimbo on the make might wear in order  to entice some sad bastard of a rich, but not very attractive, man. Her flesh had literally crept as she had put these items on. With loathing and disgust she had looked in the mirror at her obscenely attired body, seeing some caricature of herself staring back at her. What people will do to be rich!

After making herself up, she then turned to the three remaining items (shoes count as one item).

The skirt was a lulu! Bloody hell,  I can’t go out wearing this, she thought! (but then the £ signs flashed up before her eyes!)

She had heard about slit skirts before now. But this one had TWO slits! And they went a very long way up.  It reached on her to just below the knee. And it also was a very aggressive shade of red.

And then! The TOP! Sleeveless and white with broad horizontal red stripes, it buttoned up not far enough to cover her cleavage. Veronica was never one for bare arms, even in the height of Summer - which this was not, it being early April at the time. It also left her midriff exposed, as was the fashion nowadays. She resigned herself to feeling quite a breeze in that area when she finally came to venture forth later on in the morning.

No tights or stockings had been provided and this was another source of distress, for our heroine was most fastidious in this regard, refusing ever to be publicly bare-legged.

The outfit was completed firstly by a pair of open toed and very high heeled shoes of the most incredibly impractical nature. The sort of thing one could not walk in, but merely totter. The final item was a shoulder bag..

She surveyed the overall effect and sighed sadly. She was certainly going to earn her million in a most embarrassing way!

She read the letter again. It instructed her to be at the Café Rouge at 9.30 am, where she was to order coffee and toast and await further instructions. She still had over an hour to wait and spent it reading the paper, which had just arrived.

………………………………...................................................................................................................
 

Finally she realised that the time was nearly up. She must venture forth and go to the Café Rouge. This early in the morning she was almost the only customer as she tottered precariously into the place on her impossibly high heels.  She sat in the furthest corner, hoping to avoid being seen from the street and ordered coffee and two slices of anchovy toast. By keeping her legs together, she was able to avoid exposing too much of her thighs, but there was nothing she could do to hide her brightly painted toes from view.

On her way here she had indeed felt the chill against her stomach as well as her unprotected legs. The breeze had blown her long blonde hair and flimsy red skirt about a fair bit and many a passing male pedestrian had experienced a welcome boost to his morale as he spied her handsome lily white legs shown up to such effect by her unaccustomed and eye-catching footwear. The red shoulder bag only served to enhance the general tartiness of her appearance on this memorable day.
 

As she waited for her breakfast to arrive, she rubbed her bare arms and shivered slightly, feeling the goose bumps as she did so. With a cup of coffee and some warm toast inside her she began to feel better. She waited and looked anew at the morning paper. She had been there for twenty minutes when a young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, came in and started to distribute flyers to the few customers. Veronica was about to wave him away when the youth winked broadly at her, fished an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over.  She recognised the handwriting and her heart began to work overtime as she hastened to open it.

The letter read as follows:- “Before you leave here, remove one of your shoes and leave it on the table at which you are sitting. You will go the “The George” and catch the 10.18 168 bus to The Elephant and Castle”

There was more, relating to her conduct when on the bus. This made her heart sink. But, first she must catch the bus. If she missed it, her dream of wealth would have come to an early end.

“The George!”  She had never heard of the George! And she had only a vague idea of the 168’s route in any case. She always caught the tube of a morning and rarely travelled by bus.

“Excuse me, but where is The George” she asked a man sitting at the next table.

“Never heard of it” he replied. “Nowhere near here, I don’t think.”

She looked at her watch. Only just over fifteen minutes to find out where to go and then get there! Oh, shit!

Just as she about to surrender to despair, another man, sitting near the door chimed in.

“There is a pub that used to be called the George - but not for years, now! It’s called “The Rat and Parrot” nowadays. Bloody stupid name! I call it cultural vandalism changing the names of long established inns like that! Absolute disgrace!”

He looked as if he was going to continue in this vein and Veronica interrupted.

“Is it near here and can I get a 168 there?”

“Oh, yes. Just go down the hill and it’s just after the junction with Pond Street. The 168 comes up Pond Street and turns left. Stops just outside the George - I mean Rat and Parrot!”

Realising that she might need to hurry, she thanked the man and prepared to leave, paying her bill and making for the door. Then she remembered her shoe and went back to her table, removing it and putting it on the table as directed. The half-dozen or so customers stared open-mouthed as she walked lop-sidedly to the door and left.
 

PART THE FOURTH
 

As soon as she left the café, the breeze caught again at her hair and skirt, one particularly nasty gust lifting  the red garment almost waist high for a second, revealing her legs in all their majesty. It was possible, at that moment,  for the discerning observer to spot that she was wearing a thong.  A workman, toiling away at some roadwork or other, whistled appreciatively. Veronica blushed.

She looked down the hill and at her watch. Not much time if she were not to miss the bus! She put her best foot forward and this was no easy matter. Normally shod, she would have made the short distance to the George in minutes, but with one foot bare and the other clad in the high heeled monstrosity that she was forbidden to remove, it was a nightmare.

As she struggled, cold no longer, but perspiring freely, she saw to her horror that a bus was toiling up Pond Street and she still had a little way to go. Running was an imperative if she were not to miss out on the dream  of a lifetime! Those who had the privilege to witness her hurried progress were to remember to their dying day the sight of a pretty young woman, her golden hair streaming behind her and her fine young legs revealed for all to see. They would relive in their minds’ eye the lurching and gyrating gait of this unlikely vision as she ran towards the bus as well as the look of relief on her face as she made it with only a split second to spare.

She paid her £1 fare to the driver. This gentleman was a middle-aged West Indian, whose impassive features betrayed no sign of any inner surprise the sight of this lady might have occasioned. She walked or limped to the back seat as the letter had instructed and sat in the middle of it. The next bit was very hard for her to do and it was only with a massive effort of will power that she obeyed the instruction.

She had been told to sit with her legs crossed and so she crossed her legs as detailed by her mischievous benefactor! The unshod leg was to be crossed over the other and this she accordingly did. Of course, her skirt slid sideways to reveal her thighs in their entirety.

I should mention at this point that Veronica was tall for a woman, some five feet eleven inches in fact.  It might be of further interest to the reader to know that her legs formed a proportionately above average part of her height. In other words, she had lovely legs and plenty of them! Although the sun had not touched these milky white thighs at all this year so far, the lack of a tan was more than made up for by the delicate tracery of blue veins which adorned that satin smooth and warm surface.

I should further add that Miss Harmsworth was an active and fit young lady who ran, swam and worked out as frequently as her work permitted. The fruits of all this exercise were plain for all to see, as, with her calf muscle pressed against her knee, the fine long shin bone on her raised leg was accentuated in the most appetising fashion.  Add to this the sight of her bare foot - a foot unblemished by callouses or deformity thanks to a childhood and early youth spent going for ever barefoot in rural South Africa - with its red painted toenails as it bobbed about in keeping with the bus’s movement along the pothole covered streets,  and it will become clear to the reader that the other passengers had a visual treat of the utmost richness as they glanced up the aisle at the seated lovely and her deliciously displayed wares.

It was only by incessantly and silently repeating, mantra like, the words “One million Pounds, One million Pounds” that the embarrassed Veronica was able to keep her composure and steel herself to continue with her ordeal.

She had only just begun to master her emotions and forget her embarrassment when at Chalk Farm a large Afro Caribbean youth boarded the bus.  This young man wore jeans and trainers which would have cost a Third World peasant two years wages and a spotlessly clean white vest., despite the coldness of the day.

“At least I’m no longer the only one around herewith bare arms!” thought our avaricious heroine. “I suppose the vain man is anxious to show off his muscles.” Whether or not this was the case, the fellow certainly had some pretty impressive muscles to show off! He was well over six feet tall - probably six-four, she estimated, and big with it, although without an ounce of fat on any part of his magnificent body. And this black Adonis came and sat next to her!

It was now that Veronica remembered the rest of the instructions relating to her bus ride. She was to speak to nobody and not react in any way to anything that was said or done to her. She sat impassively, staring straight ahead, by a gargantuan effort of will not looking at the magnificent masculinity beside her.

Ignoring this gentleman became more difficult as he flashed a brilliant white smile at her and said. “Hi, Missy! Sure has turned out nice!”

Her discomposure was further accentuated when a large black hand descended on to her thigh and began to caress it in a methodical and expert manner. “No reaction - that’s what the orders said” she thought despairingly. Still she sat still and stared ahead, unsure what her reaction would be if she were allowed to make one! At first she had been inclined to slap the impertinent hand, as well as the grinning face to which it was attached. As the massage went on, however, a small part of her  was slightly  inclined to enjoy the experience and regret that she was unable to show her appreciation!

The bus arrived at Camden Town and she hoped that this still largely unwelcome fellow passenger would disembark, but was disappointed. The groping did not cease, but rather increased in intensity and she finally became utterly enraged both at this  man’s insolence and her own inability to do anything about it.
 Just as her patience was being tested to destruction the bus reached Euston. Still this awful person did not get off and persisted in his attentions.  She could smell his musky body odour next to her and funny things were happening in the area sheltered by her thong!

Just as she was sure she could take no more a large white man boarded. He ambled along the aisle and stood looking down at the mortified Veronica and her tormentor. After a few seconds he spoke - if his coarse tones  could be properly described as speech,  that is!

“’Ere you - tike yer bleedin’ ‘ands orff the lidy - you bloody coon!  Filthy bastard! You want that dirty black nose spread all over that ugly face?”

Veronica’s companion replied,  with a wealth of obscene inventiveness, that the other fellow could go and get f*cked (among other things).

She cowered inwardly while remaining outwardly calm. She had never had two men fight each other over her before and was half hoping that this situation would soon be remedied! Her money was on the guy in the white singlet!

But  the appearance of the newcomer apparently persuaded the other man to back down. He was also a huge fellow and very muscular, although less athletically built. Whatever the reason, Veronica’s tormentor soon got to his feet and went to sit upstairs. Her rescuer sat down next to her and made no effort to speak  - to her immense relief.

At Waterloo, the first man came downstairs and got off, followed closely by the second. Veronica saw with surprise that they were both walking away laughing and chatting like old friends. A put up job, obviously! She wondered what further surprises the old practical joker had in store for her!
 

THE STORY SO FAR
 

Veronica Harmsworth had answered a tempting advertisement and accepted the eccentric Andrew Vane-Clatworthy’s offer of one million pounds in return for the performance of certain services to be rendered on a Wednesday  in April. She had already found that great embarrassment was in store for her before she could finally grasp the coveted cheque in her hot and sweaty hand.

She had endured a highly humiliating ride on a 168 bus, being obliged to sit in a prominent position with her luscious and lovely legs exposed for all to see from the tip of her brightly painted toes right up to her shapely hips. A lewd and unpleasant man had sat next to her and fondled her. Another man had almost started a fight over her. Truly,  her cup of embarrassment was full to the brim and running over today!
 

PART THE FIFTH
 

At Waterloo, the two large men had disembarked and Veronica prepared to enjoy the short remainder of her journey in relative peace. Most other passengers had left the vehicle by now and only two remained - a pair of elderly Japanese tourists who very politely refrained from looking in her direction. One stop before journey‘s end, this couple rose to get off. The lady nimbly ran up to Veronica and smilingly took an envelope out of her bag and handed it to her, bowing gravely and with extreme politeness. She rejoined her husband and both departed, leaving Veronica as the sole remaining passenger.

Before she herself had to disembark she opened the envelope and took out the enclosure. It read simply, “Remove your remaining shoe and carry it to Conti’s café  in Borough High Street. You will order a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich and await further instructions. I hope you are enjoying your day!” Oh - very bloody funny, she thought with unaccustomed savagery!

It was great relief, though,  that she read this latest instruction! Any more hobbling around as she had on her way to the George would have effectively finished her!  The feel of the dirty pavement under her  feet did not please her, but she soon realised that a childhood spent barefoot had been excellent preparation for her walk this morning and she soon found herself walking briskly and enjoyably.  After a while she even began to hum to herself. The day was bright and sunny for the present, but a chill easterly wind was blowing and her skirt continued to misbehave to her continuing though increasingly resigned displeasure.

It was about twenty minutes before noon when she got to the café and by this time she felt in dire need of refreshment and something to eat. Although this place would doubtless be very busy before too long, it was still reasonably quiet. She drew her newspaper out of her bag and tried to make a start on the crossword. The coffee arrived after a couple of minutes and she nibbled away and sipped, trying to make sense out of the cryptic clues. Today was obviously not a good one for her brain and she made slow progress.

After twenty minutes she began to wonder if she had perhaps mistaken the name of the café and looked again at the letter. NO. No mistake, but this was a long wait!

 Just as she was beginning to think something had gone terribly wrong with the old man’s arrangements, a dishevelled man staggered into the café and came over to her, with the manager hot on his heels, obviously anxious to eject him. Before he could be cast back out into the increasingly busy street, he dropped a greasy and crumpled envelope on the table before her. No sooner had he discharged his obligation to the ancient financier, than  he was very forcibly ejected.

Veronica felt a pang of pity for him and went to the door to see if she could thank him and maybe offer some help, as he looked to be one of life’s unfortunates in a big way. She just had time to see him walk briskly over the road and get into a very smart car, which promptly drove away - another put up job! She went back to her table and opened the envelope.

“Dear Veronica (I hope I can presume to this familiarity?)

Would you please be so good as to finish your no doubt welcome meal and refreshing cup of strong tea. After you have done so I wonder if you   would like to walk over London Bridge and make your barefoot and I feel sure charming way to The Lamb Tavern in Leadenhall Market. Order a large brandy and go and sit upstairs. Please do not fail to pass a friendly word or two with the good lady behind the bar!  Before paying your bill and leaving this café, do be sure to toss your remaining shoe casually over the counter, taking care not to hurry out, but walk away slowly and with great dignity.

Yours truly

A V-Clatworthy”

At least she wouldn’t have to cart that horrible shoe around with her any more. Good riddance to it!

She did as directed tossing it with casual nonchalance over the counter, to the amazement of the Italian owner/manager. The clatter as it fell noisily on the floor made her wish to run out as fast as her long supple legs and bare feet could carry her, but she recalled the injunction to move slowly and with dignity.

Outside in the street, she turned right and made her way North over the River Thames. The icy wind was blowing straight upriver and seemed determined to blow right up between her legs, freezing her to the marrow as well as blowing the doubly split skirt in all directions at once, flapping noisily away like the Union Jack on her office flagstaff. A policeman passed her, going in the opposite direction. She felt sure he was about to arrest her for indecency, but he continued on his majestic and impassive way, without so much as a sideways glance at the goodly expanse of female flesh that was causing so many others to turn their heads in sheer amazement.

Once over the bridge, the wind abated a little, but it was still strong enough to raise a myriad of goose pimples and  keep lifting her skirt to sometimes almost eye level. She prayed that none of her colleagues or business acquaintances would see her. If they did she was sure she would die from very shame!

She turned off Gracechurch Street into Leadenhall Market and soon found the Lamb Tavern. It was not one of her favourite watering holes, being too far away from her place of work.  She had been there a few times and had always liked the place as well as the small Victorian market with its fish and poultry shops, now sadly being replaced by boutiques and Coffee houses.

The Lamb was not too crowded and for a change she had time to look at a photograph  on the wall behind the bar. It was a picture of the late John Wayne, standing beside what appeared to be the staff in the same bar that she was in.

“I didn’t know he was ever here!” she exclaimed to the barmaid. “When was that?”

“Oh, yes! He was in a film called “Brannigan” It was about an American cop who pursued a killer over here. There was a scene filmed in here.”

“Yes, I remember now!” said Veronica. Silly of me not to recognise this place in it! Wasn’t there a fight scene in which the place was smashed to bits?”

The lady laughed and said that that particular scene had been filmed in the studio using a mock up - not the pub!

Having thus obeyed her benefactor by chatting to the bar lady, she walked up the spiral iron staircase to the upper floor and sat down. She sipped her brandy and soon began to feel the effects.  As I have mentioned Veronica was not really a dedicated drinker, being in the habit of making a very small drink go a very long way. Those readers who do not know what I mean when I say that the effects of a strong drink on those unused to spirits can be profound and mood changing, had better try it out for themselves. I have neither the time nor the inclination to waste on giving a description myself.

Suffice it to say that a degree of mellowness began imperceptibly to steal over her. She relaxed and stretched out her long legs, crossing her ankles and sighing with more content than she had felt thus far all day. She took another and longer sip, coughing slightly and feeling warmth and complacent contentment permeate her entire being.

“I wonder what comes next?” she thought.
 
 
 
 

PART THE SIXTH

The lunch hour time was well advanced by now and the bar was beginning to fill with the usual mixture of sober suited City men and women. The women were all smartly and decorously dressed, in stark contrast to the brazenly and scantily attired Veronica with her striped sleeveless blouse, bare abdomen, voluptuous cleavage  and scarlet slit skirt. Many glances were directed in her direction. Thank Heaven none of the other drinkers were people she knew!

With the fumes of her brandy doing their relaxing work, Veronica had failed to notice how the skirt was slipping off her legs, revealing again that wealth of milk white skin that had so enlivened the journey of dozens of passengers on the 168 bus earlier that day.

“Is there anybody sitting here?” Veronica glanced up sharply, her euphoria temporarily dissipated. A tall young man, not quite so smartly dressed as most of the other customers, was standing over her, a glass in his hand and smiling politely.

“No. I’m alone, do sit down.”

The man did as invited and proceeded to take some papers out of his attaché case. Soon he was immersed in them and seemingly oblivious to the cleavage opposite him at eye level and the length of bare leg and bare feet stretched out below him. Veronica returned to her contemplation of the immediate future. She saw that her glass was nearly empty and downed the last of the brandy with some regret that there was no more left. That drink had been just what her shattered nerves had needed!

No sooner had she put the glass back on the table than the young man raised his eyes from his papers and fixed her with a blue eyed gaze of startling directness.

“Can I get you another? I’m about empty myself” he pointed to his own glass. “What would you like?”

“Oh. It’s very nice of you! I don’t know if I should have another. I’m not exactly my own boss today, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure Andrew would love you to have another, my dear. Brandy, wasn’t it?”

“Andrew” asked Veronica waveringly.

“Yes. That’s right! Andrew Vane-Clatworthy. My boss. Asked me to keep an eye on you for a minute or two. Can’t have an attractive young thing like you drinking alone, can we?”

The young man disappeared back downstairs and was soon back with a pint of Special Bitter for himself and a large brandy for her. A VERY large brandy for her! She stared at her refilled glass with no little concern. Whatever she was still to be asked to do later on, she hoped that a visit to a swimming pool would not be on the itinerary. She knew it was unwise to swim whilst under the influence. But what was the swimwear in aid of, she wondered anxiously?

The man introduced himself as Douglass MacTavish of That Ilk. “Call me Douglass.” he told her with grand condescension.

“What does ‘That Ilk‘ mean, Douglass?” she asked. She had often wondered.

“Oh! It just means that I take my name from a place called MacTavish. The MacTavish of MacTavish - that’s yours truly. I like the skirt, by the way. But then - I would, since it was I who chose it, along with the rest of your outfit!”

She spluttered at this, being in the process of taking a rather large sip at the time. The young man was by her side in a trice, ready to administer help if she seemed in danger of choking, but she soon recovered, thanking him for his concern.

As soon as she had cleared her throat, she gasped croakily. “I can’t say I think a lot of your taste in clothes - or women, come to that if you go for the sort of girl who wears this kind of thing!”

Douglass laughed heartily at this, his ruddy face a picture of honest mirth.

“I can’t say exactly what sort of girl I ‘go for’ as you put it! I suppose that outfit is a bit revealing, but that was what I was instructed to get you. I think it suits you - seriously I do! You repress yourself the way you dress, both for work and leisure! Don‘t you feel just a little bit more alive today, even after the first stages of your ordeal? Come on! Admit it - this is fun in a way as well as bloody embarrassing - right?”
 

Veronica blushed half in anger and half because she knew there was a germ of truth in what the man had just said. Yes! It was a revelation to her to see what she was capable of doing. The power of greed!

Douglass continued. “I hope you get a bit of sun on those legs this summer! They’d look great with a rich deep tan. I bet you had one all the year round when you lived near Jo’burg as a girl. What happened to you when you came to England to change you? Mind you - I quite like your skin as it is today, especially after all that fresh air it’s had blowing over it! Very tasteful!”

She ignored all this and asked. “How much worse does it get today, Douglass? I suppose I get to display this excuse for a swimsuit at some stage of the proceedings?”

He laughed again - even more merrily this time.

“Indeed you do, my dear. Indeed you do!” After getting these words out, his amusement became so intense that he was bereft of speech for some minutes. Finally he recovered, his healthy young face redder than ever.

“Yes, my dear, strait-laced and conventional Veronica. You get to display that creation soon. Very soon!”
 

PART THE SEVENTH
 

Veronica had been enjoying her chat with Douglass until his mention of the swimming gear and its coming revelation to a watching world. It was a cold day outside, something which the warmth of the Lamb Tavern had almost, but not quite,  caused her to forget. This chat with another, and friendly,  human being was a welcome change from her day thus far .

As I have said earlier, Veronica was not one to display her charms too blatantly and openly.  She would dress decorously even in the summer, never exposing much of herself. Even in her work-outs and jogging sessions she would wear all-enveloping Lycra exercise wear. Only at the swimming pool would she let her bare arms and legs be seen, and then she was mostly under water.

She would never shower with the other girls and women, preferring to go home and do this in privacy. Ever since the fifteen year old Veronica had come to England to complete her education , she had been becoming more and more prudish. What had happened to her today would  obviously have embarrassed most women but, for Veronica, it is difficult to exaggerate the awfulness of her mortification and shame.

That was why the conversation with this tall and very aristocratic gentleman with his artless knack of putting people at their ease had been such a welcome relief to the ultra-embarrassed girl. Then he had told her she was soon to display her swimwear to a watching and wondering world and  had collapsed into paroxysms of helplessly abandoned mirth.

Finally he recovered and wiped the tears away from his eyes, apologising for any distress he might have caused. He turned the conversation deftly to other matters. He was obviously highly knowledgeable about current financial and business trends and events, including the downturn of business in Veronica’s own chosen field. He sympathised with her discontent and unease at her immediate job prospects.

Then he switched to the subject of the theatre and asked what shows she had seen lately. When he heard that she had not been to the West End in years he slapped her playfully on the hand. “Well - we must surely do something about that! All that wealth of the world’s finest talent to be seen day by day and you stick at home or in the pub! Shame on you, my girl! I’ll be in touch after today is over! We must go to a few shows together - if you like?”

Veronica said she would very much like and the chat paused for a few minutes as both enjoyed a spell of convivial silence.  Then Douglass looked at his watch and whistled.

“Wow! Time certainly goes fast when you’re enjoying yourself! Time for you to get your next instructions. Here you are. I’ll wait while you read them and then be getting along.”

He produced one of the by now familiar envelopes from his brief case and passed it to her with a friendly and sympathetic smile. She opened it and read the following:-

“After your revivifying drink and no doubt pleasant conversation with the excellent MacTavish ( a very able and delightful gentleman, as you no doubt realise by now!), I fear that the time has now come for you to venture forth and present that fair and beauteous body anew to the rude gaze of the wondering and delighted hoi polloi. How sad that the weather on this, your great day of destiny, has proved to be less than ideal for the exposure of that tender flesh to the elements!

“Would you please be so kind as to go to the Ladies and restore the ravages which time and several cups of tea and coffee etc. have done to your make - up - and at the same time, remove your blouse. As you make your stately and dignified way down the stairs and leave this most excellent of establishments, you will hand the discarded garment, with a warm smile and friendly word or two,  to whatever smartly dressed City Gent is standing nearest the door. Leave the Market and walk north up Gracechurch Street and along  Bishopsgate. Do not hurry. Further directions will be given to you,  all in good time.

“Yours most sincerely
 

“Andrew  V-Clatworthy

PS I have hugely enjoyed watching the videotapes of your earlier adventures!  You have shown great style and élan thus far. I really like the skirt - I expect you will miss it when the time comes for you to part company with it!”

Douglass was watching her as she read this, seeing with amusement her face lose its pallor and become redder with rage and shame. Finally she put the letter in her shoulder bag along with the others and went over to the Ladies. Douglass got up and bid her farewell for now. She hoped that she would see him again. He was just about the one and only decent thing that had happened to her all day!

Once inside the small ladies’ room she quickly complied with the first part of her new directions. As she leant across the washbasin she saw her breasts  ripple and shimmer with the movement. She told herself by way of comfort that removing the blouse would not really expose a lot more of them . She had already shown far more of herself than ever in her young life before. It took only a few seconds to restore her make up. It certainly was eye-catching she thought again!

And then came the first difficult bit. Button by button she undid the blouse, until it hung down exposing the remainder of her stomach and chest to view. She looked at herself and quivered in horror. This was the City! The heart of the Nation’s financial and business life, a place with a thousand years of tradition! And she was about to parade half naked before a phalanx of respectable business men and women. Oh - the sheer awful shame of it all! And then the thought of the million pounds came to her rescue and her courage and resolve were restored.

It was only with an effort that she was able to make herself remove the blouse altogether.  As she folded it up and prepared to leave after first relieving the strain on her bladder, she passed another and older woman on her way out. This good lady stared angrily at her. “I think you’re in the wrong pub, you tart! Try Browns in Shoreditch - you’d go down a treat there - bloody whore!”

Her face burning with shame at this, Veronica walked across the floor over to the staircase, watched by some approving men and disapproving women who were enjoying a lunch time drink or two. One couple were kissing each other with great enthusiasm, until the man espied Veronica and diverted his attention to her, to the fury of his lady companion.  There was the sound of a face being loudly slapped and a chair being roughly pushed back, scraping over the floor, and the angry woman pushed past Veronica, giving her a look in which a venomous rage predominated and quickly left the pub. The poor young man looked about three times as embarrassed as even poor Veronica was feeling.

Before she went down the stairs she had time to hear a man’s voice call out to the young ex kisser, “Never mind, old chap! It’s worth a slap in the face to get a good look at that chick. By Jove, it is - glad my wife‘s not around to cramp my style!”

“CHICK!  So I’m a bloody chick, am I?” she thought as she began her slow and dramatic descent to the ground floor. “Never mind, it’s worth it if I get the million smackers tonight!”