Coffee with La Crème

By Briony Bryon

Coffee with La Crme, written by the mysterious Briony Bryon, is the extraordinary story of a young girl unwittingly groomed as a high-class prostitute. Encompassing the ravages of war and the consequences of her profession, the story moves with pace. It is impossible to put this book down before you have finished reading it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524661472

Book preview

© 2016 Briony Bryon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/12/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6146-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-6147-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Preface

Sitting in the taxi, I rubbed the toe caps of my shoes discreetly up and down the back of my legs. I checked my hair and make-up in the mirror and picked some imagined dust off my sleeve. Then I checked my bag: note book, tape recorder in working order, and a number of pens, all there. I took a deep breath.

A rookie reporter on a local London newspaper earning so little that, at the age of twenty-eight, I was still living at home in the suburbs with my parents, an uninspiring middle-aged couple content in their unambitious retirement. I loved them, of course, but my life was definitely dull. And here I was, on my first big assignment. Well, it was big to me, but I don’t suppose my boss thought so. He probably sent me off just to get rid of me and give me something to do.

My brief had been sketchy. There is an old dear, Madame Bitz, living in those apartments in Hans Crescent. It seems she’s quite interesting, so perhaps you had better go and interview her. My boss raised his eyebrows. Apparently she has agreed to an interview. Goodness knows why. Supposedly the powers that be know more than I do. And that was my brief. I was nervous, afraid of being late (no reporter should ever be late), and my mouth had dried up. I had the cure for that – a packet of polo mints in my bag. I sucked hard on a polo mint, licking my dry lips as I did so.

The taxi driver dropped me off and I stood looking up at the apartment block. A typical Victorian red brick building, it was really rather ugly in a grandiose sort of way. I checked my note book. I needed number eight. Ah, there it was, number eight, a conservative black door enhanced by a brass knocker in the shape of a clenched fist, a balloon shaped brass door handle and a brass letter box, all gleaming in the weak early morning sunlight. I stepped up to the door and, taking the door knocker firmly in my hand, knocked it sharply three times. Rat tat tat. I waited.

The door was opened by a petite woman wearing pale grey cashmere and pearls. She was exceptionally fair and I could see immediately that she had been a great beauty in her time. She still was. Her long hair was skilfully looped into a chignon at the back of her head. Her style was discreet, sophisticated, undoubtedly expensive. Do come in, she said and stood back from the door allowing me to pass. I stepped into the hallway which, in its presentation, was entirely unexpected. I gasped. Furnished with beautiful and tasteful antiques and mirrors as I would perhaps have expected, what really took my breath away were the four full length, floor to ceiling, oil paintings. Dominating the hallway and positioned in pairs, one pair each side of what I presumed was the drawing room door, they were stunning. Each oil painting was of a beautiful young nude. They were clearly the same two girls in each pair, one pale, lustrous and translucent, clear hyacinth-blue eyes and long almost white hair, the other olive skinned, burnished and gleaming, large doe eyes, long lashes and short black curly hair. Both girls smiled mysterious Mona Lisa smiles. They were complete opposites of each other in colour, but both bodies were long and lithe, almost standing out of the paintings which were exquisite, delicately executed masterpieces.

The pale girl was clearly Madame Bitz in her youth. My background was such that I had not seen many paintings of nudes and I scarcely knew where to look, but these paintings refused to let you look away. They commanded you to look and admire them.

They are beautiful, I blurted out. I felt myself blushing. Oh, Madame Bitz, I am so sorry. I should have introduced myself. You are Madame Bitz, of course? I am Ruth from the Knightsbridge Gazette. I felt stilted and naïve.

Yes, I am Madame Bitz, she said but nobody calls me that. They all call me Creamy, so you can call me Creamy too and, yes, the blonde one is me when I was young. The other one is my good friend, Coffee. Beautiful, aren’t they. She laughed a small, tinkling laugh. I blushed again. I had never previously known any woman acknowledge that a nude painting was her and that it was beautiful. It did not quite equate with my own puritanical upbringing.

Come in, dear, she said. I’ve made some dim sum, and we can have a glass of sherry to help us get going. You want my story, I believe, and I suppose I’m ready to tell it now. She laughed again, that delightful laugh. Although I think you might be a little shocked.

Oh no, I said, trying very hard to be entirely professional. Nothing shocks me. But I could still feel the red colour rising in my face.

Well, I’m very glad to hear that, she said. Let us drink a toast to my story. She raised her glass To the story! and sipped her sherry. To the story" I repeated, sipping the tiniest sip possible. I had to stay very sober and be very serious, after all.

Moving with feline grace, another woman, slim and lithe, entered the room. Although considerably older now, I immediately recognised her as the woman called Coffee in the oil paintings, and she too was still beautiful. She was expensively and tastefully dressed but in a more bohemian manner than Madame Bitz,. Her earrings attracted attention immediately, big golden hoops emblazoned with diamonds, they fell to her shoulders. Her hair was still short and curly, African style, and her neck was long. She wore a scarlet velvet kaftan and her feet were bare. Madame Bitz introduced us. Aah, this is my friend, Coffee, she said. How do you do, said Coffee. Her voice was low and husky. She curled up easily on the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her.

Coffee and I have been together since the beginning, and so this story is going to be OUR story, if that is alright. Madame Bitz looked quizzically at me.

Oh, of course, I said, gulping.

I think we shall need several sessions, Ruth, Madame Bitz said. Can you manage that?

Oh yes, of course, I said, wondering what on earth she had to say that would take so much time.

The first session lasted for two hours at the end of which I was exhausted. Apart from the concentration and determination to get it all down accurately, I also had to deal with the shock, surprise and, let’s face it, sheer embarrassment and frequently considerable excitement, at what these ladies were telling me. I think they were pretty tired too. The telling cannot have been easy for them. They must have been in their late seventies or early eighties when I met them.

As it happened, their story was amazing. My boss, reading my draft after the first session, whistled. Whew, he said, Cor, this is hot stuff, as he pulled at his collar and tie. His neck had turned a dull red colour, and the flush was creeping up his face. He mopped his brow as he continued to read. I smiled silently to myself. I knew that what I had written was