HAPPY CHRISTMAS

WISHING YOU A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM LONDON!

End of Chapter Three of Shebug Origin: West Coast

The Prentice mansion buzzed with preparations. “Are you ready?” he asked his young driver.

“Yes, sir. I’m leaving to pick up Miss Vestey as we speak.”

“Good. You do that.” Peter patted Bradley’s shoulder and walked off to take a call.

Fifteen minutes later, Victoire’s heels clicked on the marble entrance into Peter’s palatial house like heat seeking missiles poised to annex with the cerebral chief once and for all. In spite of the chilly summer night, she wore nothing under her body hugging crimson satin dress.

The most important guests were the three Electra partners and their wives fresh from Chicago plus key Bassadai executives from each division.

Social events were not Willy’s forte. He was overwhelmed by what he saw. He had heard Artemis describe Prentice’s place, but to be in it was quite another. Thanks to colleague and friend Julie’s frantic last-minute help, he turned up in a navy suit, white shirt and a clean knit tie. The new lace up shoes pinched his feet, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Willy nearly swallowed his olive when the Victoire floated onto the scene. His heart broke into a mad gallop. He had no idea how he was going to string coherent sentences with the goddess dressed to kill in such close proximity.

 Victoire soaked in the lofty atmosphere and felt very much at home. She fantasized about Peter’s house and what her friends would say if it belonged to her; one-upmanship was de riguer in her snobby circles. 

That evening Peter behaved unusually more attentive than ever before. He kept her near and placed his hand on her bare shoulder and arm on more than one occasion. Even his cologne smelled different, spicier, masculine.

Maybe it’s the champagne going to my head, she thought, seeking out the nearest bathroom to touch up her lipstick.

 “Victoire!”

Recognizing the voice, she spun round to see if Artemis had come with Willy.

“How are you?” she asked before she air kissed his cheek. “Have you guys come together?” She looked over his head with eager eyes.

“Gee, no,” he said apologetically. “That’s the reason I was sent here.” Victoire cocked her head to the side looking confused. “Artemis went home with the flu and asked that I take his place at the last minute. He looked like hell, poor guy.”

Whatever else Willy said, Victoire didn’t hear. She bit back her frustration and tried not to throttle to nerd.

“There you are,” Peter said before putting his arm over her shoulder and steering her away. “I was beginning to wonder where you disappeared to.”

Victoire’s eyes double in size. The host’s tone sounded unmistakably possessive.

# # # #

 Peter wined and dined Victoire from Chez-Panisse to Fleur de Lys during the entire run-up to CES, much to her surprise. He whisked her off for a romantic weekend in Big Sur via helicopter and played the part of lover boy turning Victoire’s plans to ensnare Artemis upside down.

“A man in his position does not romance an employee unless he has marriage on his mind, chérie,” her mother announced proudly.

Victoire smiled back coyly. He was much older and not as attractive as she wanted, but he was a very ambitious catch nonetheless.

“And you thought I had lost my edge,” she replied pointedly.

“Well, I guess the fruit does not fall far from the tree, chérie.”

Shebug Origin: West Coast - Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chapter Three Bassadai had exceeded Electra’s sales and profit targets four years in a row. I’ve proven I’m unbeatable, unstoppable, Peter thought, frustrated that the offer of joining Electra’s golden corporate triumvirate and despite his perfect track record had not yet materialized.

Peter was finally forced to confront the bigger picture: the ‘three wise men’, as he referred to them behind their backs, were no-nonsense Midwesterners, family men grown and nurtured in the country’s Bible belt. Peter, however, was of cut from a different cloth, the odd man out. But he was damned if this very personal aspect was going to block his way to the very pinnacle of success he had toiled long and hard to reach.

 He sighed, pursed his lips and dialled his mother’s number in Florida.

“Mom, I have some good news for you.” He took a deep breath and said through a forced smile. “I’ve decided to get married.”

# # # #

Artemis spent his time supervising the Bassadai Think Tank, better known as BTT, and in back-to-back corporate meetings preparing for January’s Consumer Electronics Show, or CES, in Las Vegas. Any hope of connecting with Victoire got snuffed before he could pick up the phone and make a date.

But when he learned Victoire was attending the same party at Prentice’s, his fatigue evaporated.

“I look forward to seeing you then, Artemis,” she said sweetly. “Any longer and I would have forgotten what you looked like.”

Artemis smiled and shook his head. “Damn, that’s one sexy blonde,” he muttered before replacing the receiver.

“What’s that?’ Willy asked, bringing him a folder and seeing his boss’ eyes lit up again.

“Women,” he chuckled, “just women.”

Willy nodded his head in agreement, left his ideas on the scientist’s desk and went off to have lunch and mentally undress the same one.

End of Chapter Two of Shebug Origin: West Coast

End of Chapter Two

Friday night arrived, and Victoire readied herself to make her bedroom moves. Artemis invited her to join him and his team for drinks at their usual hangout before whisking her off to for a quiet dinner for two.

At six o’clock, she closed her office door, slipped out of her work ensemble into tight jeans and sexy blouse and walked to R & D ready to pounce on Artemis.

Victoire neared his dark office and slowed her pace. The secretary’s desk looked tidy except for a plastic cup of unfinished coffee sitting on a green folder.

Baffled, she looked at her watch and wondered if she’d had come on the wrong day.

A shaky voice interrupted her thoughts. “Um, Victoire?”

She spun around. “Where’s your boss?”

“Well, um…” Willy scratched his weak chin. “He had to meet some of the Electra guys in Chicago at the last minute.” Her face dropped. “He asked me to tell you he was sorry. But we’re still on for tonight.”

Her delicate foot tapped against the grey carpet. “When is Artemis due back?”

Willy shook his head, dislodging a few flakes of dandruff in the process. “Not sure. The think tank project has him real busy. Once it’s completed, he’ll be spending most of his time over there.”

Rumour had it Bassadai’s newly built ultra modern facility was opening ahead of schedule. The high tech, high security facility was located somewhere in Marin County for easy access. Whether somewhere in the Bolinas Ridge or accessible by Lucas Valley Road nobody outside the tight circle knew.

And Victoire had to move before her catch disappeared into the think tank.

“What? Really?” Her fists tightened. She should have seen it coming, but the secrecy surrounding the project remained impenetrable except to a handful of executives.

She looked irritated and turned away from him. Willy’s shoulders slouched. “Can I help you with anything? I talk to him every day as I’m covering for him and can give him a message.”

“Oh, so you are his right hand man during his absence?” she said, looking over her shoulder. “Wow, that’s quite an honour.” She caught eyes double behind the heavy spectacles. She stepped closer and flashed him her prettiest smile. If anybody could feed her information on her mark, it was the geek melting before her. “About tonight…”

“Can I drive you?” Willy blurted.

“Sure, but let’s go in my car, shall we?”

Victoire had Willy wrapped around her finger like a ribbon round a Christmas box in no time. Her insight into Artemis increased exponentially with the programmer’s input. Meanwhile, Artemis heard Victoire’s name mentioned over and over further fuelling his interest in the posh polyglot.

Shebug Origin: West Coast - Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Competition in Silicon Valley was fierce, and high security at Bassadia, inevitable. Key engineers and programmers were kept sequestered in the smoke glass building kitty corner to the sales and marketing division, entrance accessible only by a code changed periodically.

Willard Waites glanced at his stained Swatch watch and cursed under his breath. It was five to eight. He reached for his clipboard and scuttled out of his messy office, knocking a swivel chair over in the process. The thud momentarily overrode the low hum of the computer screens illuminating the Research and Development facilities.

“Hurry up, Romeo, or you’ll miss the Ice Princess!”

Willy flipped his spotty programmer friend the finger and pretended to go pick up some random files in the Consumer Electronics building across the street as he set eyes on the newcomer.

Victoire was punctual as she was fastidious. Adhering to routines put her in control leaving little room for the unexpected. Dressed from head-to-toe in brown, the socially inept wunderkind scurried towards passed her in the reception area without a second thought

“Hey, how is it going Willy asked as he passed her in the lobby.

“Hi,” she replied mechanically. She had no idea who he was and pegged him as one of many Bassadai geeks.

# # # #

The sophisticated international sales and marketing manager enjoyed the challenge, salary, first class travel and company perks. But Victoire wasn’t planning to earn a living too long. The work experience at Bassadai exposed her to the rigours of climbing the entrepreneurial ladder and the first-hand smell of ferocity from the cutthroat rivalry within the corridors. Like mother like daughter, Victoire embraced the motto ‘Girls who wear sensible heels pay for their meals’.

Unfortunately, Bassadai was a subsidiary of Electra Inc. Had there been a Mr. Bassadai, preferable under forty-five and reasonably attractive, she would have already eaten him for breakfast and hyphenated his last name to hers.

Three years into the game, Victoire was poised to pounce on and to exploit the fruit of somebody else’s labour.

San Francisco felt positively plebeian to cosmopolitan Victoire, more cowboys than a spaghetti western. High society fit in a thimble, the ratio of straight men to women ran in the deficit column and the array of cultural events had the consistency of skim milk.

But Victoire was a long-range planner like her mother who was on her third very rich marital catch. She had chosen San Francisco over Budapest where her father had been assigned for obvious reasons: there were more—and wealthier—fish in the bay waters than on that twist of the Danube.

# # # #

Victoire went through her closet looking uninspired. Her mother insisted she accept another invitation from Gordon Greenberg, an up and coming doctor on the look out for a wife.

The clock’s hand pointed to six-thirty, but Victoire felt in no hurry.  She settled on a smart little black dress and silver heels for the occasion. Elegant but not too sexy, she thought, focusing for a moment on her partner for the evening ahead.

Cigarette smoke trailed up nose, and she bit her lip.

“Mais alors ,vite, chérie,” her mother urged from the half open door. “Gordon is collecting us in less than twenty minutes, and you’re still not dressed. It’s such an honour that he is inviting us all tonight, you should be over the moon.”

Guidance, she welcomed; persistence, she loathed. “Maman,” Victoire explained, “Gordon is a smart guy, but not my cup of tea.”

 “Dr. Gordon Greenberg is not smart, he’s an eminence in his field,” she corrected before taking another deep puff of her lipstick stained cigarette, “and a catch any single woman in the bay area would kill for. You act as if it was a chore to be with the man.” She flicked ashes into an empty glass. “Gordon’s the youngest, most gifted neurosurgeon UC-Cal has ever seen!’ She sucked in more nicotine and pursed her lips. Smoke flushed from her nostrils like a dragon. “What is your problem?”

Victoire frowned. First off, the brain surgeon could have passed for the twin of Henry VIII and had hair that resembled a Brillo pad. Besides, hospital talk bored her to tears, and she felt she could reach much, much higher.

“You’re right. Gordon is not a catch but the catch,” she assuaged her mother, “but the fortunes being made right now in consumer electronics are mind boggling. Just read the Financial Times or the San Francisco Chronicle.”

Her mother was about to fire a retort but couldn’t argue the point. Bassadai and its two competitors popped up in the news left and right. Still, Vivienne wasn’t about to let a marital catch like Gordon pass undetected. “I was already married at eighteen; I had you at twenty. By the time I was twenty-five, your age-”

“Twenty-four,” cut in her daughter.

“Whatever. View Gordon as a stepping-stone, then, but get moving. You’ve been stuck in Silicon Valley long enough, and you’ve yet to make a wise move.” She puffed one last time then slowly twirled the lipstick stained butt until the embers suffocated. “Honestly Victoire, could it be you are losing your edge?”

 “It’s a new dawn it’s a new day, maman. People don’t get married that young any more.” She slipped into her coat and flicked her hair into place. “I won’t rush into things until I’ve scoured the possibilities. Trust me.”

Vivienne shrugged her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll give him a serious thought.” She air-kissed her daughter’s forehead then took hold of her chin. “Remember, ma petite, you’re not getting any younger.”

Victoire bit her tongue, adjusted her drop earrings in the mirror and looked back with approval. “I’ve got my eye on two very worthy prospects,” she parried smugly, linking her arm through the older, brunette version of herself.

But that was a lie. One of the two names in her diary had already been crossed out. Another woman had already reeled in Apple Computer’s co-founder, Steve Jobs.

But the other primary target was the most physically attractive of all. His name was Dr. Artemis Allen, chief scientist at Bassadai. As official captain of the brain pool, Dr. Allen held sway over Bassadai’s present and future steps.

Recently divorced and thirty-six years old, he measured five foot eleven and was of medium build. His eyes matched his chocolate brown, longish hair; his deep dimples were not lost of Victoire. Disappointingly, his work uniform consisted of baggy khakis, crew neck sweaters and scuffed loafers whether behind his desk or presenting to the big boys from Electra. But that could be easily fixed.

The man’s approximate net worth, garnered by a loose tongue in personnel was half a million base salary with fat stock options and millions more in bonuses as new products made their way to market.

Access to the low-key guru, however, was not that simple because their jobs were in no way related. He was within a two-minute walk from her office, and she made up every excuse imaginable to venture his way. If he was not at his desk, she made an effort to schmooze with the programmers knowing they would come in very handy. One of these was Willy Waites.

The twenty-five-year-old came from a middle-class family of St. Paul, Minnesota. Outside of his parents, Willy’s respect and awe went to Dr. Allen.

Artemis knew this and appreciated it. In return, he enjoyed the camaraderie amongst his young team and socialized with them when possible.

Willy’s amorous fantasies had but one face, Victoire’s, who had taken up the habit of making the rounds in the R&D wing in her pursuit of his boss, Artemis.

End of Chapter One of Shebug Origin: West Coast

Continuation of Chapter One...

Peter Prentice marvelled at the Dutch blue sky with not a wisp of fog in sight and then gave the seating assignment one last look. “Perfect,” he said, returning the typed sheet to his personal assistant scuttling about in a purple paisley bow tie and pink shirt.

The table had been set with exquisite care, everything decorated in navy and white. The theme was to mirror Fleet weekend. Twenty guests due to arrive within the hour were to take in the spectacular views of the bay from Peter’s Presidio Heights mansion and be awed by the Blue Angels performing their daredevil precision manoeuvres. You can practically see the pilots faces, he remembered, delighted the weather was on his side knowing his Midwestern associates would talk of the party for years to come.

Peter Prentice had done very well for himself considering his circuitous avoidance of his meagre background. His father walked out of the family apartment one stormy night and was never heard from again. His mother worked seven days a week as a seamstress with little more than broken English and a knack for sewing. Peter helped after work, often as her mannequin. He was different from other boys his age who worked off steam on the neighbourhood basketball court, got drunk and canoodled with the local girls.

The weight of responsibility hemmed him in early: he took odd jobs in the nearby New York garment district and learned about the trade from the ground floor up. Privately, he felt misunderstood by his peers and suffered from suicidal thoughts. Mrs. Prentice worried about Peter’s loss of childhood. She took on extra work, which kept her up all hours of the night, but her son was determined to break their chain of scarcity and vowed he’d one day to ensure she would never have to work again in her life.

The arthritic ridden seamstress retired her sewing machine when Peter turned twenty-five. His first major investment, a small furnished apartment in Brooklyn, went straight to his mother the day he got transferred to Georgia to run sales and marketing for a top consumer goods company.

Prentice’s career leapfrogged from height to height. Articles about Peter described him as driven and single-minded, a man with a knack for spotting trends.  The graying redhead also possessed an unerring dress sense, watched his waistline and absorbed all things cultural with a passion.

He saw his driver, Bradley, pull up curbside with a blonde in the backseat. Peter adjusted his silk tie. He had been quick to hire Wilhem Vestey’s daughter fresh out of college three years ago for more than her cosmopolitan education.

Victoria was a cross between Grace Kelly and Tippy Hedren, Bassadai’s very own Hitchcock blonde—and just as glacial.

“Victoire,” he said, proffering her the European two-kiss version he had incorporated into his repertoire. “I am very glad you could join us.”

“So happy to be here,” she replied, flashing a perfect smile. She softly touched his arm. “I hope I’m not the first one.”

Peter’s personal assistant bristled. She always is, the little bitch. He loathed—and admired—everything about the icy blonde. He knew Peter’s inclination for men but couldn’t help feel threatened whenever the young swan floated into his boss’s opulent turf.

The young man’s open expression did not go un-noticed. Peter bit back a smug grin and offered Victoire a flute of chilled champagne.

Gay or not, the fifty-five-year-old was smart enough to abide by the unspoken decorum that still prevailed in the progressive West Coast city. He kept his involvements behind closed doors and handled his affairs with utmost discretion. The glass ceiling that applied to female executives also applied to his category, an obstacle Peter Prentice was not about to let get in his way.

Victoire graced her end of the table and listened attentively to the conversations on either side. She delighted in being chosen as hostess well aware of the whispering circulating through the corridors of power. The age difference was lost on her: Victoire was more sophisticated and self-assured than the average twenty-five-year-old and stood out that much more in what she termed as Cowboy Country.

Her stepfather’s place was smaller by comparison, though beautifully decorated, its look said traditional, and the bay window views did not include the Golden Gate.

This is where I should live, she thought wondering who could possibly provide it for her in the Silicon Valley nerd gene pool. Victoire tapped her foot under the table and frowned. Maybe one of classless but cash-rich international distributors could be an option. The sparkle in her eyes sharpened at the idea.

Shebug Origin: West Coast - Chapter One

Copyright 2013 © by Leslie Hummel

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names characters, business places, events and incidents are either product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

   









          Chapter One

San Francisco, 1980

Victoire Vestey embodied the three Bs: brains, breeding and beauty. Life as an ambassador’s daughter, coupled with her mother’s multiple marriages, armed Victoire with four languages, adaptability and a narcissistic take on life.

A degree in economics from Berkeley with honours hung on her large bedroom wall alongside a high school diploma from a prestigious European boarding school. A fencing certificate, skier’s gold medal and ballet grade 8 also prominently punctuated the Fleur de Lys print wallpaper. 

Not one stuffed animal sat on a shelf nor was a cushion out of place upon her canopied bed. Sentimentality didn’t feature in Victoire’s repertoire.

Hers had been a life of an affluent nomad: private schooling, jet setting and zero work experience, which she left to her father to sort out when the time came.

“Ambassador Vestey,” piped the spindly secretary from the U.S. embassy in Budapest. “Your daughter is on line two.”

Wilhem Vestey dismissed the commercial attaché and settled comfortably behind an imperially large desk. “Victoire, it appears you struck the right rapport with my contact, Peter Prentice, last week. Well done. He wants you to start your job at Bassadai on the first of next month.”

“I knew we hit if off. I spoke with the Vice President of International and the head of marketing a few days ago and got a good sense of what they are looking for. The job sounds perfect. Thanks for helping me on the job front. I’ll keep you posted on how things work out. See you next Easter!”

A moment later, her Parisian born mother entered her room with a vase of calla lilies. “Maman!” she cried, “daddy’s friend who runs Bassadai wants me to join the international division!’ Her glacial blue eyes danced with pleasure.

“Peter Prentice? Bravo, Victoire!” Vivienne cupped her daughter’s chin in her cold, jewel-encrusted hands. “Too bad Bassadai isn’t located in San Francisco. Then again, getting a place in Atherton is a possibility—no sea views, but lovely nonetheless.”

“Trust me: I’ll be commuting, like he does,” she clarified. Victoire had no immediate plans of wasting money on rent when she had room, board and laundry service in her stepfather’s splendid Pacific Heights house. “I wouldn’t be caught dead re-locating no matter how convenient Atherton may be.” She scrunched her nose. “It’s full of old farts.’

Vivienne Vestey shook her head disapprovingly. “Perhaps, Victoire,” she said pointedly, “but very rich old farts…”

# # # #

Peter Prentice marvelled at the Dutch blue sky with not a wisp of fog in sight and then gave the seating assignment one last look. “Perfect,” he said, returning the typed sheet to his personal assistant scuttling about in a purple paisley bow tie and pink shirt.

The table had been set with exquisite care, everything decorated in navy and white. The theme was to mirror Fleet weekend. Twenty guests due to arrive within the hour were to take in the spectacular views of the bay from Peter’s Presidio Heights mansion and be awed by the Blue Angels performing their daredevil precision manoeuvres. You can practically see the pilots faces, he remembered, delighted the weather was on his side knowing his Midwestern associates would talk of the party for years to come.

Peter Prentice had done very well for himself considering his circuitous avoidance of his meagre background. His father walked out of the family apartment one stormy night and was never heard from again. His mother worked seven days a week as a seamstress with little more than broken English and a knack for sewing. Peter helped after work, often as her mannequin. He was different from other boys his age who worked off steam on the neighbourhood basketball court, got drunk and canoodled with the local girls.

The weight of responsibility hemmed him in early: he took odd jobs in the nearby New York garment district and learned about the trade from the ground floor up. Privately, he felt misunderstood by his peers and suffered from suicidal thoughts. Mrs. Prentice worried about Peter’s loss of childhood. She took on extra work that kept her up all hours of the night, but her son was determined to break their chain of scarcity and vowed he’d one day to ensure she would never have to work again in her life.

The arthritic ridden seamstress retired her sewing machine when Peter turned twenty-five. His first major investment, a small furnished apartment in Brooklyn, went straight to his mother the day he got transferred to Georgia to run sales and marketing for a top consumer goods company.

Prentice’s career leapfrogged from height to height. Articles about Peter described him as driven and single-minded, a man with a knack for spotting trends.  The graying strawberry blonde also possessed an unerring dress sense, watched his waistline and absorbed all things cultural with a passion.

He saw his driver Bradley pull up kerbside with a blonde in the backseat. Peter adjusted his silk tie. He had been quick to hire Wilhem Vestey’s daughter fresh out of college three years ago for more than her cosmopolitan education.

Victoria was a cross between Grace Kelly and Tippy Hedren, Bassadai’s very own Hitchcock blonde—and just as glacial.

“Victoire,” he said, proffering her the European two-kiss version he had incorporated into his repertoire. “I am very glad you could join us.”

“So happy to be here,” she replied, flashing a perfect smile. She softly touched his arm. “I hope I’m not the first one.”

Peter’s personal assistant bristled. She always is, the little bitch. He loathed—and admired—everything about the icy blonde. He knew Peter’s inclination for men but couldn’t help feel threatened whenever the young swan floated into his boss’s opulent turf.

The young man’s open expression did not go un-noticed. Peter bit back a smug grin and offered Victoire a flute of chilled champagne.

Gay or not, the fifty-five-year-old was smart enough to abide by the unspoken decorum that still prevailed in the progressive West Coast city. He kept his involvements behind closed doors and handled his affairs with utmost discretion. The glass ceiling that applied to female executives also applied to his category, an obstacle Peter Prentice was not about to let get in his way.

Victoire graced her end of the table and listened attentively to the conversations on either side. She delighted in being chosen as hostess well aware of the whispering circulating through the corridors of power. The age difference was lost on her: Victoire was more sophisticated and self-assured than the average twenty-five-year-old and stood out that much more in what she termed as Cowboy Country.

Her stepfather’s place was smaller by comparison, though beautifully decorated, its look said traditional, and the bay window views did not include the Golden Gate.

This is where I should live, she thought wondering who could possibly provide it for her in the Silicon Valley nerd gene pool. Victoire tapped her foot under the table and frowned. Maybe one of classless but cash-rich international distributors could be an option. The sparkle in her eyes sharpened at the idea.