1: Charlie takes charge

Now then, touching on the matter of young Sparkwell, my PA, where do we stand? Some have gone so far as to assert that I’m totally dependent on her. Well, it is true I gave up trying to run my own affairs within weeks of her arrival. I’d only hired her for a few hours at the start, as a sort of physical therapist you know, but then somehow she seemed to be able to anticipate my every need.

It was one morning in spring that everything underwent one of those transformations that everyone talks about these days. I opened my eyes to find her standing over me. She was holding a class of water with a slice of lemon in it. ‘Drink this, sir. It will cleanse your system.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Dawn, drink it before going in the shower.’

‘I normally start the day with at least two black coffees, at about nine o’clock! Wait a second, how did you get in?’

‘I never left. I spent the night in the treatment room.’

‘In my spare bedroom you mean. But there’s no bed!’

‘I often sleep on my table.’ She turned to the mirrored wardrobe, slid open one of the doors and began to inspect the contents. I couldn’t help noticing, not for the first time, how her fitness trainer’s uniform showed off her undoubted - fitness!

‘Finish your drink, then into the shower.’ She asserted with crisp resolution.

‘I can’t, not whilst you’re here, I have an early morning erection, exposing myself would hardly be appropriate, as your employer.’

‘Glad to hear it, there is no natural reason why all men shouldn’t wake up with a stiffy well into their seventies. Pretend I’m not here, servants have been treated that way for centuries.’

When I exited the shower cubicle a short while later, still in a state of some arousal, she was standing there, holding my towel. ‘On reflection sir, a subservient relationship would not be therapeutic, since I shall be introducing elements of Tantra into the programme.’

Charlotte Sparkwell B.Sc. (32), graduate in Sports Science, qualified Yoga teacher and expert in Indian massage techniques, came to me on the recommendation of the employment agency. But as she stood there in the doorway the first time, holding her portable massage table, bedecked in various mobile devices and carrying a small knapsack, I realised we’d met before. ‘I say! It’s Charlie, one time waitress at the Harbour Cafe.’

‘Yes, well a girl has to make ends meet. Where shall I set up, sir?’ It seemed barely a matter of moments before she was sat opposite me, having left her shoes at the door, set up her gear in the second bedroom and returned with notebook, pencil and tablet in hand, announcing; ‘First it is necessary to do an assessment.’

‘Well the thing is, I know it’s all psychological really, there’s nothing truly wrong with me - my quack has told me as much. But pain is real, isn’t  it? I’ve just had a lot of aches and pains recently, muscular pain, difficultly relaxing, spent a fortune on talking therapy over the years, but that only seems to work for the duration of the sessions.’

‘Do you know from where your distress comes?’

‘Oh yes, my entire world, my pals and most of all my relatives!’

And so I tumbled out my woes for ten minutes or so, then she started to explain what she could offer. The body’s outer extremities, hands, feet, and face held the most nerve endings, were on a direct route to the brain and every other part of the body she explained, and you didn’t even have to take off your clothes. When I countered that it didn’t sound very scientific, she said she liked to stick with ‘heuristics’ since they could be instinctively understood by clients, something about ‘embodied cognition’ if I cared to look it up. ‘Touch has a direct line to the emotions, sir!’

‘Well, yes, there’s no denying that.’ I replied. There was something about this woman that I’d noted in her days at the café, but now close up, eyeball to eyeball as it were, became ever more apparent. It showed in the smile, a beaming intense smile, which at first one thought could never be maintained, but was. It had a hypnotic quality, and in its broadness seemed only just on the right side of madness. In other words she was brilliant, and isolated because of it. Or so I suspected. During our hour and a half or so in the spare room, she created the atmosphere of relaxation with convincingly eastern music and calm words, and delivered the most intense and thorough manipulation of feet, hands and scalp imaginable.

She visited twice a week after that. Worked me over, I relaxed and her touch did indeed seem to connect to all parts of the brain and body. Pain relief led to sexual arousal - which was okay apparently so long as I focused solely on the breath, watching it rather than trying to control it, and just ‘let go’. I was instructed to practice flexing my PC muscles. ‘Our aim is go beyond sex.’ That pronouncement came during the evening session before my unscheduled dawn awakening.

Still a little shaken from Ms Sparkwell’s sudden shift in behaviour I made haste for the kitchen as soon as I was dressed, unwilling to face the world unfortified. My favoured bread appeared to be missing. On closer inspection I found other items gone from the fridge and cupboards. I was about to call out, but the scent of this indecently healthy and fertile Cheshire cat told me she was already present.

‘I took the opportunity to detox the area, if you give me fifty pounds I can restock with more appropriate items before preparing a light lunch, say for one o’clock?’

‘I normally lunch at Crawford Park.’

‘I couldn’t recommend it, sir.’

I instigated a long pause. ‘Are you angling for a job Charlie? A relationship? Perhaps you’re just temporarily homeless?’

The smile was there again, but a little more relaxed around the edges. ‘I can get plenty of work; yoga teaching, sports massage, reflexology, whatever! But I could never afford to live in a place like this. All this space, the view. Sometimes I just want to be in the window and meditate for hours. But I can’t do relationships, I’ve tried. The thing is, what with the intimacy of what I do, I’m on all the fucking time. I just have to be in control, it’s the way I am…’

‘Okay, stop there, otherwise you’ll tell me too much. Anyhow you don’t know nearly enough about me yet. I think I know an answer, but I’ll have to think it through. In the meantime, here’s the fifty for the housekeeping. I look forward to lunch!’

‘Very good, sir.’ And with that, she was gone.

Reviewing the situation, I knew it could be made to work. There was a kind of understanding between us. But what might scupper it from the outset was the attitude of the rest of the world. At school, and later at university in the early Nineties, our lot were sometimes referred to, a little glibly, as ‘trust fund brats’, the assumption being that money was never a problem, that an endless supply was there simply by virtue of reaching adulthood. But for nearly all of us, we never had money as individuals, we were beneficiaries as children of the family trust, and as adults, trustees of the family trust. As older relatives died off, younger ones found themselves signatories to funds which brought with them responsibilities and liabilities as much as assets. The older members had the authority, but increasingly with age required more of the readies.

Contrary to popular opinion, we may be time-rich but we are never idle. Staying rich requires effort, spending money can be an investment or a waste. My pals and I are the Web generation and in this world the nerd and the geek rule! Understand that and you are half way there. The majority, in their post-modern politically correct bubble may regard us as outliers to be labelled somewhere on an autistic spectrum, but we know we are more sensitive not less, flooded with impressions of pain - and that is what gave me the edge in approaching an understanding of young Charlotte.

Lunch as I feared looked less than appetising, but when a chap’s gone without breakfast! ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’

‘I prefer to eat standing up.’

‘Bye the way I’ve decided you can live here, you can have bed and board and whatever cash 48 hours per week of the living wage comes to. On paper you’ll be my Personal Assistant, with this as your home address, but once the rent for a room in a place like this is worked out, income tax, national insurance, council tax, health plan, pension, six weeks paid leave etc. etc. The bit of paper you’ll get from the office will, if I’m any judge, show a salary not far short of 30k. What do you think?’

‘Parking?’

‘Actually that might be the trickiest to fix, I’ll do what I can.’

‘I’ll prepare today’s treatment.’

‘Oh! Charlie. One other thing, you must try to stop thinking of life as a series of puzzles, as a search for meaning, of why questions or mysteries; start thinking of it as a game, after all you already behave that way.’

The spare room was looking even more like a therapist consulting room. ‘I’ll require you to be naked from now on. I need to be able to fully monitor your responses.’

‘If this turns out at all sexual Charlie, I’ll only go along with it if you let me do something for you, reciprocity and all that, you’ll just have to make it bleedin’ obvious what you need, cause I’m a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.’

‘As you wish, sir.’