Nikki Gemmell
I TAKE YOU

FOURTH ESTATE • London

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Note

Anonymity: An Essay

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Each has her past shut in her like the leaves of a book known to her by heart, and her friends can only read the title

Four a.m. The prowling hour. The wakefulness comes into Connie like a blade flicked open, for ours is essentially a fearful age and she is a child of it. All her choices in adult life have been dictated by fear and now, in the early hours, it curdles.

Fear of entrapment. Of being found out. Of turning into one of those women for whom indecision has become a vocation, of a silent slipping into that. Of emotional sledging, that she is becoming less resilient, not more, as she sails beyond youth. Of softening into fat, of men who take note as if she’s ripe for a mugging, of life settling like concrete around her and judgement; of what people think of her, yes, that most of all. Women! How awful they can be.

When does the unliving start? For a particular female of this particular age, it is incremental. For Connie – ensconced in her five-storey villa in London’s Notting Hill that was once splashed creamily across the pages of Architectural Digest – it has begun.

2

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages

But there is one small pocket of Connie’s life where there is no fear.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

None of the people in her regular world of kick-boxing with her private trainer in Kensington Gardens, of ladies lunching around the communal table at Ottolenghi and of shop scouring, endlessly, on Westbourne Grove, knows of this place. In this one tiny corner of her existence all the blushing is left behind; she is unbound. Connie blooms in this world, into someone else entirely. It is a place that is open with possibility, with the potency of power, and she has so little of that in her regular life. It bequeaths her little moments of vividness that have become like scooping a hand into cool, clear creek water in summer’s heat.

3

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us

Cliff has called. He has asked Connie to be ready in two hours. He is taking this late afternoon off – rare in the silky world of a Mayfair hedge fund manager – and a car will pick her up. Her stomach rolls in anticipation, as he speaks, it rolls as if a steamroller is gently travelling over it. The tugging, deep in her belly, the wet; at the whispered command, it has been a long time, too long, since this.

‘Prepare yourself.’

Connie waits for the car on the Lockheed chaise longue – made entirely of riveted aluminium – by its tall window in a mewly winter light. She loves how the metal of her coveted design piece looks like a giant goblet of mercury, like something else entirely; thrills at the sternness of it against her flesh. Its arresting cold. She is shaved, perfumed; this is all necessary now. To her, and to Cliff, dear Cliff, to whom she has been married for four years and with him for five before it.

Connie is dressed well. Always, she is dressed well. A woman who has the instinctive touch of looking impeccably ‘right’, on every occasion; conservative, with a flick of cool. Today, it is the shortened Chanel skirt of grey bouclé with veins of red through it. The iron-grey, silk Chloé blouse that slips like water from Connie’s hands and hangs below the jacket cuffs with something of the loucheness of the seventies to it; a touch of Bianca Jagger in her prime. The black lace Rigby and Peller bra, fitted by the Queen’s fitters. Wolford stockings. No knickers. Shoes, vintage McQueen’s, that look like the snout of a bull terrier. Fearsome, hobbling, but Connie has mastered them; everything in her rarefied life appears gilded, effortless.

She must be entirely shaved, of course. ‘I need you bare,’ Cliff has whispered, his voice dropping an octave as Connie squeezes her thighs together, tight, so tight, upon the thought. Bare for whom? What?

The car, sleek and panther black, purrs to a stop outside their villa which backs onto one of Notting Hill’s finest communal gardens, an expanse of several hidden acres now silent with snow on this January afternoon. A pristine, waiting brittleness. It has been a particularly long winter. One pair of footprints, heavy workman’s boots, smear the glary expanse of the great lawn like the restless prowl of a lone wolf; but no child plays, no adult wanders. The sky is pale, almost white. Everything waits. But for what …?

The lady of the house picks her way carefully down the icy marble steps. She smiles her too wide, too unEnglish smile at Lara Deniston-Dickson, her neighbour, who is nudging recalcitrant window boxes into spring preparation after winter’s clench; checking on the wilted cyclamens that withstand so much. Lara is one of the few Brits left on this square. Her dilapidated house is crammed with fabulous but shabby heirlooms, oak dressers and chairs, a dining table piled with books, washstands, a zebra rug, ancestral portraits, a Modigliani from Granny, several pianos and a lot of dust – the servants have long gone, as has the heat. It is one of the few houses left like this on the square as the bankers have sharked in, mainly from foreign countries, everyone, it seems, but the Russians because this is still not Belgravia, still a bit too ragged, edgy, loose for that lot. Lara has a grand disdain for this new world that has gone into lockdown, barricading the riff-raff out. Even her husband, dear Rupert, a man of some standing, thank you very much, yet treated like a tramp, asked by the new committee if he ‘owned’ – if he deserved a key to this very garden – merely because he was old and a touch scruffy with it. Oh yes, Lara has a disdain for these shiny, refulgent newcomers with their babies in cashmere and men in their too-new Barbour coats, all of them; except for the poor, lost girl next door with her dazzle of a smile that illuminates her face as if she is lit from within, but she doesn’t see it enough.

She does now. ‘Going out?’ The older woman smiles in approval, for she likes to see her sweet slip of a neighbour getting some fresh air, cheeks flushed; bound as she is to her workaholic husband and his precise demands. Connie knows little of his previous life, she has told Lara that.

‘I have no idea where,’ Connie laughs. ‘Do you? No, I didn’t think so. It’s a complete surprise. He adores them. To a quite ridiculous extent.’ She is talking of her husband as if he is a little boy.

‘He’s a keeper, that one.’ Lara nods, smiling, a woman who has lived through three marriages and four children. ‘A good marriage is fed with kindness, of course, but surprise, the gift of it – now that is the hidden ingredient. To sparkle things up now and then. Absolutely necessary in my book.’

‘Oh yes.’ Connie waves a pale hand nonchalantly, a hand manicured three times a week, upon which sits a single ruby within a protective ring of diamonds that once encircled the finger of Wallis Simpson. ‘Oh yes,’ she repeats, stepping into the warmth of the idling car and staring into her husband’s eyes as he waits in the back seat, spinning in the deft fingers of his left hand his Mont Blanc Bohème Noir pen. The pen that has been everywhere, that has begun all this; with the words it wrote, with the secret world it sprang into life.

4

She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day

The car pulls seamlessly away from the kerb. The windows are smoked to blankness. No one can see inside. Connie sits upright, legs delicately crossed at ankles, the worn crocodile of her vintage Mulberry handbag demure on her lap. She does not look at Cliff, she never looks at him, at the start, she can’t, she will stumble if she does. The spell cannot be broken; she must not let her head intrude, her rational thoughts; it is the only way these tumblings into something else can work. These episodes when she lets her body’s anima, the dark recesses of her mind, take over; when she trusts, completely trusts, because he has unlocked her into this.

The car is driven through the jangly upper reaches of Ladbroke Grove – as opposed to the White Heights, what Cliff and Connie call their rarefied end of Notting Hill in a private joke – and takes a left at the end of it. Their cars never take a left. Connie still does not look at Cliff, she neither asks nor questions. She gazes out the window as she is transported further and further from the graciousness of her home, her tree-lined street. A new London entirely unpeels before her.

A very different London – the real London, possibly – skinned before her eyes. A world of unremitting ugliness, scruffiness; not a blade of green in sight. The great press of its people, from all walks of life; everywhere but Britain, Connie thinks. It feels like these poor, watchful people are the stranded backwash, left high and dry upon a cowed, groaning, exhausted plot of earth. Connie’s from Cornwall, where the earth still sings, the great, beautiful bones of an ancient land and when she catches scenes like this it feels like the joyless future of this island, of the world; the crowded, jostling, built-over and unhappy future of the world as they know it. Feels like her tiny, lovely little Kensington and Chelsea is ring-fenced by the crushing, resentful, triumphant press of … this. The utter lack of any attempt at graciousness and wit and reach in this new England is startling, jarring, wrong; yet Connie feels like the only person in the world so thoroughly disturbed by it. These people need beauty too! Nowhere, here, is the London of her imagination that she moved into to gulp aged twenty-two.

Fingers suddenly spider across Connie’s soft inner thigh. It is the whisper of an enquiry, tracing a finery, her names perhaps; to submit, to begin. It is the signal. She turns from the window. Obediently, beyond will, beyond thought, Connie unhooks her legs and parts them, just a touch. Sits upright, very still. Waits. The fingers gently, gently nudge up her skirt until it is bunched in a thick band around her waist. She is ready, as directed, with just a plain black suspender belt. No ribbon, no lace, the thrilling cold of the limousine’s leather seat pressing up onto her, into her. The driver’s eyes flick at hers. She catches them. It is a new driver. She holds his gaze, her face gives nothing away; he is trying not to look, he looks down, at her bareness splayed on the leather, he cannot help himself. Cliff’s fingers softly, gently, part her lips, as if for the driver’s benefit then circle, exploratory, her back passage then suddenly plunge in – she gasps, lurches forward – then his fingers find her other hole until she is hooked and now poised, exposed, on the crook of his hand as her own reaches down, unstoppably, as she spreads herself, unstoppably and exposes her clit wide and presses her forefinger down on it and moans. She shuts her eyes on the driver’s glance, on the greyness of the world outside, on the weighed-down people at their drab little bus stop and the Halal chicken shop and another right beside it as she grinds down unstoppably on the cool leather of the seat.

‘I want to inspect you,’ her husband whispers. ‘You have to be fully prepared. Nothing must be left to chance. Remove your skirt.’

Connie obediently slides down the zipper and wriggles out of it. Loops the shirt ends up into the top of her bra, for maximum visibility, holds her hands obediently, waiting, across her breasts.

The driver’s eyes. Cliff and her need others, now, need to elaborate; need to shift away relentlessly from sameness.

‘Come,’ her husband commands.

Connie climbs across the wide interior to her husband’s seat.

‘Sit.’

She straddles her husband, her back to the driver; she goes to kiss Cliff but veers to the left of his cheek at the last moment and hooks her chin on his shoulder. He lifts her body high. ‘Yes,’ he whispers, examining her cunt with his fat pen, parting her lips then running his fingers in luxurious strokes along the wetness then lifting up her hips so that her behind is fully exposed, high, so high, to the driver, and Cliff is parting her cheeks wide, wider now and she is like a baboon there, poised, with her ready arse. ‘Display yourself,’ Cliff whispers and she parts her cheeks with her own hands, flattening her belly and moaning and pushing out her cunt, as wide as she can for the driver, for her husband, for any camera that may be filming for she is now, entirely, someone else. Poised. For the next step, whatever it may be.

‘Your Maglite,’ her husband says to the driver in another voice entirely.

‘Sir?’

‘Please.’

The driver fumbles in the glove compartment to his left and hands a tiny, slim torch across. Cliff switches it on and runs the beam across Connie’s wideness then he turns the torch around, switches it off, and toys the blunt end at her anal opening. The shock of the cold, the thrill of it. She groans, starts to move under its questioning, the chill pushing soft against her resisting bud. Cliff works it and works it until Connie is tightening her muscles and coming in a spasm of wet and collapsing against his strong shoulder that’s like a sudden scaffold to her limpness.

‘Yes. She’s ready,’ Cliff smiles. ‘Proceed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The car revs yet does not lurch, never lurches, all is smooth and seamless and utterly correct.

5

The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames

How far will you go? When do you stop? Have you stopped, have you shut down, did you ever start? Bow out, now, if you must. When is the spell broken so that the inhibition, the flinching, the admonition and retort come rushing back? Have you put this down yet? Once, Connie would have thought a woman could have died of shame but instead of which, the shame died. Just like that, so D. H. Lawrence wrote. Shame, which is fear. And judgement. And with the death of shame she was released. A regular, everyday woman, any woman, of demure and considered tastes; raised by an empowered mother to be an empowered woman and yet deep down she was plumed into transcendent life by this. How? Why? It doesn’t make sense, yet it seems like something deeply animal, biological, these moments of vividness when she surrenders to something quite disconnected from everything else in her life; baubles of otherness, oh yes. Surrenders her body, by relinquishing her mind, such a delicate balancing act. And so Connie is released, for nights like this, to become someone else. Entranced. On the cusp of an unimaginable fate …

The city peels away, the car drives on, out into open country and through villages bunkered down against the cold and they’re gone in a flash and then they’re bulleting along runnels of narrow, high-hedged green and then thick woods, on, on, through the waiting quiet. The snow-scrubbed day has absorbed all sound.

The car suddenly, smoothly, pulls over into a small clearing. Without a word from either man. As if this has been done before. As if all is proceeding to plan. As if they are in some kind of strange, unspoken collusion. Connie jerks up her head, like a dog suddenly alert; lights are in front of them, but at a distance, high, wide; something momentous is close. She has no idea what. She trusts.

‘For his little task I need you to lie across my lap, my lovely, but up, up, on all fours,’ Cliff requests politely.

When Connie is done, arranged, as to specification, he whispers to her, ‘Do you love me?’ a moth’s breath to her ear, the pen in his hand stroking her labia, the familiar pen.

‘Yes, yes.’

Something is reached for, it is hard and cold, it suddenly penetrates her anus, is switched on, it buzzes. ‘Yes, yes,’ she repeats as she flinches, groans, widens herself.

‘Will you do what I want? Are you my good girl?’

‘Yes, yes,’ as the car pulls away, soft, with barely a murmur and certainly no signal, no talk.

The gatehouse they come to, a short distance away, is a frippery of sculpted sandstone three storeys high. The car slows through its high arch and stops. Connie is on all fours, still, naked now except for her stockings and McQueen’s; her haunches across Cliff’s lap, her willing cunt exposed high to the side window which the driver now lowers. A shock of winter cold, a crunch of gravel, a low West Country voice commanding a flurry of dogs to ‘git, the lot of you, be still’. Torchlight sweeps the car. Connie does not turn, does not look, stays still, pliant, tremulous, waiting, entranced; anonymous, as she knows she should, as she knows she must. For it is what Cliff wants. She is the good wife.

‘We’re here for the doctor,’ Cliff says, the V of his fingers spreading her as if in some secret prearranged signal. ‘We’re ready.’

‘But is the lass?’ a man says with a rough laugh. The heat of a torch, suddenly close upon Connie’s cunt. Examining, considering. Fingers, gnarled, rough, brusque, brushing aside Cliff, roughly spreading her lips. Connie does not turn, does not look, she gasps at the shock, folds into it; signalling her need, her readiness, her want.

‘She’s been prepared. She’s wide enough where she needs to be.’ Cliff kisses her cheek lightly. ‘And narrow enough’ – another kiss – ‘where she needs to be.’

‘Off you go then. They’re all waiting.’

Connie’s rump is smartly slapped like a mare set off into pasture.

6

The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality. I like their completeness. I like their anonymity

Snow is raggedy and undisciplined, in big, blowsy flakes as Connie steps from the car. Naked but for her stockings and shoes, naked against the visceral shock of the cold. Cliff is already out, thanks to the driver, he is readied, silken and immaculate, by her door. The driver now removes an ankle-length mink coat from the car boot and wraps it around her and hooks it, just once, at her neck; the silk of its lining cool and comforting against her skin. Her face is blank, as is his. ‘Thank you,’ she murmurs and as he finishes adjusting the fur at her shoulders he brushes his hand, once, swift, along her wetness in its entirety and up her belly which rises softly, subtly, to meet his cupped touch. ‘Thank you,’ she repeats.

Face blank, he turns to Cliff who is patiently waiting, smiling and holding out his hand for Connie; the two of them like the crème de la crème of a society ball about to glide into their grand moment; as if all is precisely as it should be. Connie crunches through snow as resistant as a frozen grape. Tugs the coat shut against the snow, the chill, the opened door ahead of them and its spilling light but Cliff shakes his head – ‘uh-uh’ – it is not what he wants and so she steps inside that beautiful, warmly lit Jacobean building, through its wall of heat, with the coat ever so slightly open and fluid to her readied, strummed nakedness.

Before them, a high desk. Of the kind found in an exclusive nightclub. A lone woman is at its helm. Slicked-down blonde bob, scarlet lips, bustier; Vivienne Westwood, Connie guesses.

‘Good evening.’ Cliff nods, ever the gentleman.

The woman looks at Connie. Takes a riding crop from the desk before her and inches the fur coat open with it, as if to assess. A wry smile, one side up one side down. Approval. The woman rises from her desk, and it is then that Connie and Cliff realize she is wearing nothing but that bustier, her pudenda a strip of blonde, her cleft strong and visible underneath. She walks right up to Connie, thrusts a hand between her legs. ‘Is she ready?’ she asks, moving closer, cunt to cunt. Connie can feel it, the shock of another woman so violently close, her energy, her challenge; she flinches and reels back, has never been with a woman before, doesn’t know what to do. The receptionist draws back and gazes at her, with what? Fondness, pity, wonder. What is ahead, what …?

‘I’ll let the master of the house know.’

They are all in collusion, Cliff is in on it. Part of the excitement is surrendering completely to his control but the two of them have never gone this far before. A prickling of discomfort; Connie quells it. The element of surprise, of teaching unfolding, has always been a crucial component of this journey; like being blindly led further and further down a secret path. Where will it end? How? Connie is astounded at her trusting capacity to shut off mentally in order to transport herself physically; her deep willingness for the drug of transcendence. The desire to go deeper and deeper down that secret path, whatever is at the end of it.

The receptionist makes a call – ‘She’s here, the main act, you promised me a go’ – then explains to Connie her face will be covered so she is truly anonymous, and free, that she has to be as free as she can be tonight or it will not work, it can’t, she has to surrender completely or it will not be any good … ‘for me, for you, for any of us’ … but then they are interrupted by a man of fifty or so bouncing down the imposing wooden staircase and warmly greeting Cliff with a shake of both hands.

‘Welcome, welcome, my friend. Ahmed is waiting. And this – this – must be the beautiful Constance.’ The man unhooks her coat and throws it back from her shoulders. ‘Can I watch?’ he asks Cliff, never taking his eyes from Connie, the length of her waiting, ready, primed body, utterly exposed to the three of them. ‘It would please me immensely. It’s been a long time since we had one of these.’

‘Be my guest.’ Cliff nods in the smoothly charming way he has with his clients as he extracts their money from them.

‘And everyone else?’

‘But of course.’

‘Excellent. The theatre, the good doctor, the instruments. All are ready and waiting, my friend.’

A suddenly violent flinch, flaring through Connie, like a horse’s shudder. Cliff takes her hand – ‘I love you so much’ – he is whispering his approval, his gratitude, steadying her. ‘The next step. For both of us. Your gift to me. To us.’

Connie is righted, almost buckles, with anticipation, readiness, want. Nothing must break the spell, nothing, she must not rationalize too much. She must not let fear clench her want, dissolve it.

‘Surrender – completely – or it will not work. For me … for you … for any of us.’

7

For most of history, anonymous was a woman

A young woman is summoned, her hair in a plain bun. She is bearing a silver tray. The receptionist picks up a length of silk cloth and wraps it several times, with practised expertise, around Connie’s eyes and cheeks, her belly firm into her back. ‘My name is Nika,’ she whispers. ‘And I’m going to look after you tonight.’

The master of the house observes, takes over. ‘The cloth is so no one knows who you are in the real world,’ he explains, ‘so no one will ever know. Tonight, our little club is packed. They are being thrown morsels as we speak but you … you … are what they want. They have been told something of what to expect. And none of them will ever know who you are. Or who you belong to.’ Cliff squeezes her hand as the master reties Nika’s knot tighter and whispers in her ear. ‘Anonymity is your refuge. Your liberation. Into another world, another life. You are one of us now. You will be ours from this night. You will want to be.’

He steps in front of Connie and parts the silk, just a sliver, so she can see out, for now, a touch. His fingertip brushes down her lips, he smiles, their secret.

‘Nika, please escort my old friend into the red room. He needs some pre-show entertainment. And perhaps a stiff drink. I need to prepare this dear girl.’

At that, Connie starts trembling; trembling as she realizes this is all entirely new, and Cliff will not be with her, not leading her, telling her what to do, not whispering a kiss on the cheek and assuring her everything will be all right; she is trembling as the maid takes her husband by the hand and leads him out, away, from her, from whatever is next; trembling as she realizes she is now alone with this man with his sudden greed of a touch. For what, she does not know. Have they gone too far, Cliff and her, in spilling their secret wants? She never expected that world to leach into real life.

It is too late, Cliff is gone.

The stranger throws her fur coat briskly on the counter. ‘We’ll be needing none of this now.’ Summons another girl from the shadow of a doorway, also bearing a silver tray. Upon it is a thick red collar. ‘Such a pretty little thing, for a pretty little girl,’ he murmurs, buckling it around Connie’s neck then suddenly tugging it roughly, pulling it a notch too tight as if he is free, now, to be vicious, since his friends have left the room, like a man in a secret moment with a dog. The collar is too thick, the leathery smell pungent. Connie gasps but does not cry out. ‘Oh, you sweet, sweet thing, you are ready, so ready for this, aren’t you?’ A chain is attached and she is jerked towards a wooden door, low, with brass studs. Roughly pushed through it. She stumbles. A foot in the small of her back forces her up, into looking.

A room like Connie has never seen before. Like some anatomical theatre of old. Small and windowless and steeped with hard wooden benches on three sides, on several levels. In the centre of the floor: a narrow, unforgiving doctor’s table. Instinctively Connie knows it will be hard and cold upon her flesh, for it is for her, instinctively she knows that. It has steel railings at its head, like a bedhead, for securing things she presumes, and stirrups hanging down from the ceiling above. Next to it is a narrow steel table with various implements; she can hardly bear to look, she is breathing fast now, shallow; there are irons and manacles, collars, whips of different sizes and some strange instrument that looks like a medieval hole-puncher. How has her world come to this? Where is Cliff? No, no, she must veer back into willingness.

‘Yes, my dear, oh yes,’ the master murmurs, propelling her towards the table, grasping her chin and forcing her into looking. She pulls back, resists, the man immediately calls out ‘Hans’ and through the door steps a man in tight jeans and singlet, no neck, just a fall of skin into shoulders and with two panting dogs on leashes; all three of them look like they’ve been plucked from the London just driven through. He has her fur coat over his arm. One dog barks. Connie is very, very still, scarcely breathing now, trembling.

‘Just remember, my love, this is what Cliff wants,’ the master says, mock-soothing, holding her leash tight so they are now cheek to cheek. ‘He has asked for this. For everything. He will be in the audience. He needs to know how much you love him. How obedient you will be. For him. For others. It’s what he wants.’ Connie whimpers. ‘You know that.’

She does. Everything she has done beforehand has led to this point. She shuts her eyes, wilts. Her tongue is nailed to the floor of her mouth. The master takes her mink from his servant and spreads it upon the doctor’s table, fur side up. Connie knows, now, what she must do, what is expected of her. She does not resist, it is what Cliff wants, it is what she wants, what she has led him to think she wants. She steps obediently up onto the small platform by the table. Slips off her shoes and places them carefully, side by side, on the floor. Lies down gingerly, for she knows this is what Cliff has prescribed; in his precise way, he has thought this through carefully. She says nothing as the bouncer secures her wrists with iron manacles and ties them to the iron bars at her head. Surrenders, gasps. Says nothing as he trusses her up, knees bent, violently exposed, for the entire theatre to see; says nothing as the bouncer runs a finger across her, slips a digit in, grunts his approval. A dog barks, comes forward, Connie moans. The servant withdraws, too quick. Is gone.

And now. Just the master and her. He walks around the theatrical space in a circle, assessing. ‘We certainly don’t need these,’ he says suddenly, crisply, taking out a small ivory penknife and running it down the Wolford silk on each leg, snapping off the garters. Expertly, no skin is broken. Connie cannot see, can barely move, she is so bound. A tongue laps her up, once, quick. Her arse is rimmed, entered. A groan.

So ready, so ready.

‘I’ll leave you for now,’ the master says, looping the dogs’ leashes over a post by the lowest seats. Then he kisses Connie gently on the forehead, caresses her like a child being put to bed. Adjusts a surgical light so it is glaring onto her and steps away. ‘Enjoy. You are extremely lucky to have someone who allows you to be so utterly, magnificently … free.’

He is gone.

Connie hears the door shut, the panting of the dogs, the faint hum of the light. So. Utterly alone. Anonymous. Another person entirely. And waiting, wet. Within the valley of her mind; her roaring raging glittering mind. All the shaded creek pockets like crypts; the beauty and ugliness, the rawness and the want. The night feels open with possibility. How ironic this is, Connie thinks; how ironic that like so many suicides these actions can stem from nothing more than a simple desire to be good. It is the obedient, the pliant, who succumb, who always succumb. The selfish, the craven, the canny – those with the chip of ice – would never get to this point.

Yet the enthralling power of it, too. The thrilling sense of command, of being watched.

Wet, so wet, as she waits, like a spring-loaded trap ready to lock its jaws upon life. Anonymously. Entirely someone else.

8

Lock up your libraries if you like, but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt you can set upon the freedom of my mind

Connie can barely see through her sliver of silk. The banked seats are full. The animal anticipation. Cliff there somewhere, anonymous, hidden, but she can’t make him out. She is exposed, in the glary light, yet no one can discern who she is. She waits. A gong, a frisson of silence. Backs straightened, straining. A ringmaster strides in. He cracks his long whip either side of her and she gasps and flinches at the shock but is untouched. The audience cheer. Then the stirrups begin to move, mechanically, straightening her legs, forcing them apart in a violent V. The audience, primed, thunder their approval.

‘This act, my friends, this last act of the evening, is called … The Banker’s Wife.’ A roar of approval. ‘And to assist, we welcome to the floor a physician who deals with the most unusual, most delicious, most singular of situations – the esteemed Dr Ahmed. Normally, these requests are carried out in utmost privacy. But tonight you are extremely fortunate, for what you are about to witness is to be shared, by consent, with all of you.’ Roaring, stamping. ‘Now, is she good and ready, I wonder? Is she the banker’s wife – or the banker’s whore?’ He is working the crowd, revving them up. ‘Does she want this, I wonder? Let’s see, shall we?’ Clapping, cheering, whistling, jeering. ‘I can’t hear you. Shall we see, or shall we not?’ Roaring, and at that moment Connie realizes that they perceive it all as artifice, pretence, she is part of a theatrical show, one of many put on here, it is all an act, she can play a part. She surrenders; her body a receptacle for whatever Cliff has decided upon next.

The ringmaster holds out his whip, suddenly smiles, thinks twice, turns it around, and with great show of a drum roll nudges the handle inside Connie’s vagina. She’ll show him, draws it in, knows Cliff is watching somewhere close, aroused, his face unmoved yet profoundly moved and she writhes on that handle, grasping it in her muscles and working it, rhythmically working it, for she knows he wants her with others, always asks; other men, women, in a place like this; more than anything he wants this, he has told her often and she comes in a flood, the good wife, too quick, in her own private moment amid the spectacle of the crowd, his gift to her and hers to him.

As she collapses inward, with the sheer exquisiteness, a small man of great containment, neatness, steps from the shadows. The crowd hushes, expectant.

The next step.

‘Good evening. What you are about to witness tonight is a most unusual – but not uncommon – request.’ A naked woman steps forward, wearing nothing but a red collar with a chain looped from it, firm under her cunt, from front to back. She is holding a red velvet cushion upon which sit three small devices. The man picks up a tiny object, displays it high. ‘What you see before you is a padlock. Not quite the usual one. It has a nicely rounded shape. It is has been made by artisans, to the husband’s exact specifications.’ A glittery quiet. ‘Quite a beautiful little treasure, oh yes. A ruby surrounded by diamonds is embedded on one side’ – the audience gasp – ‘and a swirl that echoes an esteemed family crest is engraved upon the other.’ He snatches it away. ‘Ah! No peeking!’ The audience laugh in excitement. ‘It is a most singular and exhilarating form of marital binding.’ He strokes the underside of Connie’s thighs, she shivers.

‘The subject is ready and willing. For her husband. Tonight. We will be inserting two sleepers in a most intimate place; these will be the rings that will hold our pretty padlock in place. From this moment this sweet, willing, and very good wife will feel its presence at all times, reminding her constantly of her most rarefied role. Thrilling her, stimulating her, disciplining her. Whenever she sees another man she wants, she will bear down on this secret bauble, knowing it is her husband and her husband only who has the key. And yes, he will allow others, at times, at his choosing; perhaps, even, if we are so lucky, within the hallowed walls of this club. Others will be allowed to touch this … open it … bestow the thrilling gift of release. Have your way. You see, this is a man of decidedly singular and specific wants. And his wife is extremely beautiful – and wanton – and greedy.’ His finger circles Connie’s anus. Cacophonous laughter. ‘Now, where exactly is this charming little object to be placed? I wonder …’

His fingers brush across Connie’s bared and readied labia, she gasps, writhes, glancing at the menacing hole-puncher on the steel table. Of course. Dr Ahmed picks it up. The stirrups move again, forcing her into the first position that she was left in for seeming hours, forcing her still, utterly bared. Her eyes search the audience for Cliff … he must be in the shadows … somewhere near a door … discreet as always … knows it is what he wants … has requested … the logical step …

‘You will not wear underpants after tonight,’ he had whispered in the car, ‘for me, for my associates, for all of us.’ Now she knows why. ‘Do you love me, do you?’

‘Yes,’ she is murmuring now, ‘yes, yes.’

Because everything has been building to this moment, of course, this moment of the attaching of a coldly explosive little object that is to become part of her from now on, her flesh, her very existence, as much as a scar is, a pacemaker, a metal pin. Every time Connie thinks of it, its weight, its grate, its drag and its coolness, she will be reminded, thrilled, addled, snared; she will shut her eyes upon it and squeeze tight. His, his alone. Totally submissive to him. Unlocked only by him, for others of his choosing, whenever he deems it is time.

How has it come to this?

9

There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me’

Dr Ahmed smiles, doctor-kind and knowing, straight at Connie. Holds up a syringe. ‘To ease the pain,’ he soothes. Someone in the audience gasps. Is that her Cliff? She does not know; still she tries to find him, cannot. He cannot have abandoned her, at this crucial moment, he cannot be leaving her here. This is terrifying, she wasn’t expecting anything like it, she feels so cruelly exposed, wronged, humiliated; the spell is snapped. ‘Show us all how brave you are,’ the doctor whispers close, just to her, holding high the instrument for all to see. ‘It’s just like getting your ears pierced. Show us how much you want this.’

And at that moment Connie catches sight of Cliff, by the door the servant entered, smiling, willing her on and needing this and she succumbs once again, latches onto the surrendering, grabs at it; pushing her cunt out, out, as far as it can go, ready to receive, for him, yes, the magnificent depths of her love … for this has brought them both alive … she will be consumed by it, transformed, someone else entirely … for him … his creation, toy, fascination, his means of being flooded with life; she shuts her eyes, wills it, the slipping into something else. For after all, she is the good wife, everyone knows this.

A local anaesthetic first but still the pain is searing as the first hole in Connie’s flesh is punched through but she does not cry out, she does not, knowing Cliff doesn’t want that … but at the second piercing, oh God – it cannot be helped: a piercing scream tears the night.

This is not an act.

Blackness … she slumps onto the soft mink … the relief of the oblivion. All soothing, velvety dark, all quiet.

10

Why are women … so much more interesting to men than men are to women?

He has asked her to write it down, all of it, the raw, unvarnished depths; the great and astonishing cistern of her lusts. Cliff needs to know, urgently now, and in a supreme act of love Connie has done so. She has stripped herself bare, violently, with moving vulnerability, just for him; she has unleashed her deepest, innermost thoughts. And to a man. A trusted confidant, when women rarely reveal the rawness of this vivid underbelly. To anyone. This, their secret life. Which is rarely given life.

‘He is a man of decidedly singular and specific wants.’

Clifford is confined to a wheelchair. A skiing accident at Klosters, two years into their marriage. And in the gilded unliving of this feted Notting Hill couple – the ex-Goldman banker and his fragrant, former model wife – this, now, is what keeps them tremulous. Connected. There is no physical sex between them. There cannot be because of Cliff’s condition. It is all, now, in the mind. It is all deeply secret display and withholding and commanding and surprise and play – and truth, audacious truth. And it is better now than it ever was, when their marriage was conventional, when Cliff was whole; it is as if a grainy black and white movie has burst into Technicolor life. Because one night – upon hearing his grief-stricken frustration as he tried stirring his deadened penis into stiffness and could not – Connie took up her husband’s Mont Blanc pen and spilled, courageously, her innermost thoughts.

What she really wanted. What she did not. Because Cliff had asked. Had begged for anything that could help them both.

How to love a new husband whose very manhood has been suddenly snatched? She would not leave him although many in their honeyed west London circle expected it. She’d get a grand payout, she was still young and attractive and could move on to someone else, set herself up in a Portobello mews and open a bespoke chocolate shop – but they all underestimated the Cornwall girl. For Connie has a lapdog sense of good in her. Of decorum, of duty, of Christian respect. There was pity there too, and a desire for sudden usefulness after years of being the trophy ornament to various men, the girlfriend everyone wanted to fuck. She would not leave her crippled husband, she could not. She would become a different type of wife now, devote herself entirely to Cliff, do whatever it took to have him lead as normal a life as possible, with normal wants.

Or abnormal. As she soon found out. Because it worked. Like a match struck into darkness it sprang Clifford back into life. He became a man again, with a man’s vociferous lust. And she was pleased, so pleased, at that.

11

Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size

Cliff knew little of Connie until the accident. Their sex life had been uninspired. Connie loathed kissing her husband but had never told him this. It was like he was trying to eat her lips; she hated his breath, how he ate, the clicking of his jaw as he masticated, how he brushed his teeth. He made love with an utter absence of tenderness, as if it had never been shown, taught, as if he had no idea what this was. He took a long time to come, too long, and the whole process veered, often, into tedium and hurt. Connie sometimes thought she could die in that time, as he was grinding away, unproductively, gratingly; she could not bear it, with every pore of her body she could not. She never told him this. He pawed her breasts with an absence of finesse, her nipples remained stubbornly soft. Nothing worked.

Nothing had ever, really, worked. But Clifford Carven the Third was a man set, there was no point in trying to veer him into something else. An American of supreme self-confidence and little self-doubt; a golden boy, an only child from east coast wealth who’d spent a silkily entitled lifetime getting his way and thinking little of anyone else, because he didn’t have to. Handsome, in that robust, blue-blooded American way, of rude, patrician health, as if his entire upbringing consisted of daily vegetables, energy-boosting drinks and the cleansing salt from wooden-decked Cape Cod yachts. Handsome, yes, but cold with it; his face as it aged falling away into hard angles and planes, the leanness and ruthlessness of a competitive cyclist now in him. But for Connie, at the start, he was a promise of something else. For her, for her children. A higher dynamism, perhaps. They were a golden couple and they knew it.

Connie had never come with him. She never told him that. In fact, she had never had an orgasm in her life. Her husband wouldn’t know because he never asked. He made love selfishly, with little thought for the recipient. Always had, because he had the air of a man who had never had a woman say what she really, actually, might want. It was too late, Connie didn’t try, didn’t care enough. And she knew that satisfying sex in terms of a woman was only one small aspect of the fullness of married life, and fleeting or absent for most, so she contented herself with gleaning satisfaction from the other parts. A gaggle of bankers’ wives and girlfriends around her for shopping weekends to Paris, pedicures in a gossipy line at the Cowshed, movie nights at the Electric. A show house of careful beauty, the former residence of the Portuguese ambassador. A manicured garden of clenched formality. Sushi parties for the girls, book club hostings, charity lunches, church fundraisers. Glittering dinner parties for fifty, Christmas drinks, Guy Fawkes barbecues, work dos, anything and everything to mask the terrible silence of the two of them, alone, like a shroud upon them both.

And then the accident, and the marriage was shifted onto another path. Cliff’s pumped charisma gone, to be replaced by something else: a simmering snippiness and cruelty brought about by a sheer sense of raging misfortune, Connie suspects; it’s something that, pre-accident, never seemed to surface. Her duty: to soften all that, to set things right, however she can. She has a purpose now.

Yet, yet. There is a woman she once knew and she gazes at her occasionally as though through thick, opaque glass; can’t touch her, grasp her, be her. That woman is free, fearless, blazing, bold. She is young, her younger self. The lust for losing her virginity surprises her even now, how badly she’d wanted to be rid of it. Yet ever since she has felt disconnected from the sex act, as if she was looking at it, every time, from the ceiling; observing it, wondering, flinching. This is what it’s all about? Surely not. The horror of sex not her way – not the emboldened way it always was in her head – was the first great shock of her adult life.

The men, again and again, who seemed so indifferent to who she really was; who just didn’t want to know, ask. It’s me, she was raging inside, this is who I am. She grazed upon sex through boyfriend after boyfriend; never gulped it complete, never swallowed it whole. Watched, intrigued, always watched; no one could penetrate her careful, observing, inscrutable shell. Then she married Clifford in the Seychelles in front of one hundred guests they’d flown in specially for the occasion and she stepped into, seemingly effortlessly, a world of ridiculous wealth: of subterranean screening rooms and swimming pools, of separate his and her massage rooms, summer as well as winter walk-in wardrobes, four cars (one just for the motorway alongside three vintage Porsches), of FedExed luggage, multiple help, ordering off the menu, daily blow-dries, museum-quality art. Like many rich wives, she rarely looked happy; no, that wasn’t the word for it: she looked collected, smooth, in a uniformly thin, carefully blow-dried, thoroughbred kind of way.

And it was only when Connie was needed that something like love – as far as she knows what love is – uncurled. The accident tipped their sex life into something else. Because Cliff gouged out – patiently, gently, beseechingly – the very marrow of his impenetrable wife. It had become the trigger that now tipped him into someone else. To see her so wanton, transformed, bared, cracked, made him focus on another, made him forget.

Her girlfriends have no idea of any of this. A listener rather than a talker, a receptacle for everyone else’s angst, Connie is extremely good at maintaining a secret life.

12

Often on a wet day I begin counting up; what I’ve read and haven’t read

‘I want you to read. I want you to tell me what works.’

So. The good wife, eager to facilitate, is flushed by a new sense of purpose. Reading above and beyond her creamy bankers’ wives book club with their Booker winners and Harvill challenges and occasional star guest who lives close. Reading at home, flushed, in the middle of the day, straddled firm on cool steel. A strumming hand. Drinking from an untapped well of words that tingle her up; that initiate, transform, exhilarate, unlock. It is writing that elicits a visceral response like no other words ever have; speaking directly to her in a secret language, woman to woman. To have such potency, as an artist, to elicit such a belly-churning jolt. Only connect, of course. It is said Renoir painted his pictures with his penis and Connie now seeks the words women write with their vaginas. Needs their vulnerability and their truth: as ugly and thrilling and complex and excruciating and scarred as her own. She finds it. Cliff, too. In a world she would never dare talk about with her friends, for she knows too much of it now; mustn’t give herself away, mustn’t break the spell of it.

And so the two of them began, alone. Tentatively. With blushing honesty. An exploratory spirit. Shared books, the enchantment of them, for it is an enchantment. Connie reads fast, her breath shallow, her belly dipping; breathing in deep the liberation of these new texts like a corset unloosed. The journeying progresses into the reality of words suddenly slammed down – a husband summoned, a wheelchair straddled, a Mont Blanc pen whispered into an anus that has never been penetrated; by night the Box visited and by day Coco de Mer; Brazilians are performed at home by a black man of satiny physique; there are collars and handcuffs, blindfolds and belts. The shame dies fast because the new world unlocked is so spectacularly different, transporting, vivifying; yet Connie had been stolidly sexually active for at least a decade before all this.

It’s as if Cliff senses that this is now the one way to entrap his beautiful, slippery, inscrutable wife, to bind her tight to his new life; it’s as if he isn’t quite confident of anything else. And so Connie is reeled in, resisting, but caught nonetheless. Complicit at every step.

All the stops on her life at such a young age, except this, vividly this. Cliff’s goal: to gouge out the – astonishingly different – woman underneath. I take you to be … but what he discovers over these days following the accident is that she is actually, exhilaratingly, quite someone else. And gradually, over time, dear, sweet Connie Carven of the carefully blow-dried hair and Vivier shoes – faithfully handing out her Bibles at the door of St Peter’s every second Sunday of the month – has slipped beyond her calcified adult life into a glittery, secret new existence that steals, spectacularly, her nights. Her husband found the key, at the height of cruel misfortune; his singular triumph in a time that seemed utterly absent of it.

Connie felt needed with all this. Thrillingly. Gratefully. Don’t we all have a universal desire to be needed in our lives? That basic human want. Cliff had a plethora of helpers – drivers, housekeepers, cleaners, personal valets, cooks – to smooth his way in every other respect. Except this one; the one that plumed him into feeling like a man once again.

But now he wants something else. The logical next step. An overwhelming desire to share his triumph with a select few, to trumpet it. He’s that secure with the velvety ropes now binding this relationship tight.

13

Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour – landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one’s hair!

He puts her to bed like a child. They do not sleep together. They never sleep together. Connie is up high, in the vast attic room, her choice. Her wonder room. Full of twigs and shells and sticks and cones, fossils, bones, sketches, books. Hand-stitched quilts from Victorian Ireland, battered fishing tins of wondrously mottled green, Edwardian rods from the Cornish coast. The windows are never shut so every night Connie can drink the night, the moon, the sky; and by day the melancholy cries of gulls that speak of London’s great maritime past and sing her home. The room has a lift, at Cliff’s insistence, but he never lingers, for this space represents a wild side of his wife he never quite trusts. Because it can’t be bought. She is a woman raw in this eyrie and he doesn’t want this aspect of her anywhere else. No leakage of any of this world – raw, battered, found grubbily off the street – is allowed into the rest of the house.

The rest: a bone house, no warmth. Interior-designed within an inch of its life. Audacious chairs, thick art books (never opened), oatmeal throws and broad, boastful art. This, of course, is what’s photographed.

Cliff kisses Connie on the cheek, kisses his thanks for the magnificence of the night. She turns from him, sleepily; feels the virgin weight raw between her legs. Does not know how many hands inspected as she lay there unconscious, in that theatre; she can feel an ache, a fulsome sullying. Was Clifford watching from the wings? Who, eventually, inserted the padlock? Who snapped it shut? With what sense of ceremony? She does not know. Any of it.

But it is there now, securely locked and suddenly, in the quiet, Connie is unstoppably up on all fours, a pillow under her, grinding the fresh, cold heaviness into her. The drug of it, the drug; never mind the bleeding, the six weeks of getting used to fresh piercings, the endless twisting of the hoops, the careful tending of it. She is back. It is worth it. Further and further along the path. She will do it all, all, for moments of exquisiteness like this when her body succumbs so beautifully and magnificently and powerfully and she is in awe of it, all of it; how she becomes, so completely, someone else entirely; forgetting the pain and the terror and the discomfort in the blind, addictive want. Thinking now of a myriad of hands, and cocks and cunts; cool Nika, the coy driver; it is not connected with Clifford in any way; never is, never was. She comes swiftly and collapses on the bed.

Has never felt more primed in her life.

14

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself

Connie collects Tracey Emin, the brazen knot of her. Cliff lets her because she’s ‘kinky’.

‘She’s not kinky, she’s honest,’ is the retort.

The soft glare of the neon in startling corners of the house.

‘I said Don’t Practise ON ME.’

‘I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW.’

‘MY CUNT IS WET WITH FEAR.’

The latter in the shared bathroom off the main bedroom that Connie hasn’t used since Cliff’s accident.

On the stairs leading to her eyrie is the wiry delicacy of legs splayed, a plunged hand, a labia scurried. Reddened, raw. The titles: Self Growth, Thinking About It, and Those Who Suffer Love, a series of heels and ankles wide, as wide as they can be, in homage to Courbet’s L’Origine du Monde.

Connie is drawn to Emin as she is drawn to Dickinson, Réage, Duras, Plath, for their vulnerability, authenticity, anarchy, courage, truth. Cliff just thinks she needs a fuck, quick smart. ‘That’ll fix her up.’

15

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes makes its way to the surface

Connie wakes late into a hard light. Pain, down below. Itch. Practically, how can this work? What is happening to us all? she wonders. All this brazen new openness and honesty, all this craven, spectator want? Public figures, A-list celebs, young royals: they’re all ending up at the Box at some point. Where does it go from here? The experimentation increasingly permeating the public sphere, the new nakedness, raw talk. The Brazilianed and Botoxed ladies of her book club have all read Fifty Shades and now discuss bondage and belts when once it was Proust and now this, her fresh little branding, yet it doesn’t feel so odd. The voracious devouring of these illicit texts feels revolutionary in terms of women’s reading; the dawn of a new age of … what? This new decadence, effulgence, feels like the tipping point of some sort, an inexorable slide into a waning like the Roman Empire’s demise and Connie wonders what on earth could follow it. A flinch into extreme conservatism, perhaps, a vast reining back?

All she knows is that there is a body, a being, a confidence that dies as soon as light hits her high room and the real world intrudes. But those secret nights … oh, those nights.

16

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in

Eleven a.m. Saturday. Breakfast together, the yellow and black room at the back of the house. Cliff chewing loudly as he reads the FT, masticating his egg and toast, slurping down his coffee in a loud gulp. Connie cannot bear the sounds, he is oblivious. No one has ever pointed them out to him, she is sure. It is one of those moments of utter stasis between them when her future life comes hurtling towards her suddenly, a wall of acquiescence, stillness, rot.

Cliff looks up as if he’s only just realized she’s there. Inclines his head. Engages. Reverses his wheelchair, a touch. Asks her to throw her silken kimono from Myla off one shoulder and come closer, right by him, to sit in the chair next to him, upright, one leg cocked: ‘Let’s see what that small fortune spent on yoga poses actually does for you, hmm?’

Connie complies, winces, it hurts.

He inspects, smiles a murmur, ‘Good good,’ snaps his paper for better viewing and returns to his reading. Connie relaxes her leg. ‘Play.’ Brusque, from behind the newsprint. ‘Cherish the family crest. Show me. I want to see. Hear.’

Connie feels too stiff, raw. It hurts. She stops.

Silence. Stillness. Her cage and she has constructed it, of course. With her obedience, her compliance, her truth. Cliff continues reading the paper, lost in his mergers. Connie now gazing out the window, thinking of Picasso, how he said that all women were goddesses or doormats and if they weren’t doormats at the start of the relationship then he’d do his level best to crack them into it. Herself? She’s never been any threat. It’s why his tight, moneyed family likes her, she knows that. One of those sweet ones who will not rock the boat; a pleaser, primed for a rubbing out; instinctively his family of strong women recognized it despite the slight niggle of a gold-digger, she can sense it; but she’s sure they’re like that with anyone who comes into their fold.

‘You will look after him, won’t you?’ enquired his mother, upfront, at the start. ‘Yes,’ Connie answered simply, ‘yes of course,’ even then. And she has ever since. No one’s ever been afraid of her cowardice, her compliance; they all take her to be the good wife. Look after him, of course, but what about herself? Who’ll look after her? She’s a girl, she’ll be fine, she can look after herself.

‘Where do we go from here?’ Connie suddenly asks into the morning quiet.

Cliff puts down the paper. Wheels his chair close. Props her leg back sternly, then the other one, and brushes a touch, admiring his handiwork; his wife’s knuckles are white on the chair’s rim. He does not know this. He tells her he has a new client. His voice, signalling the start of the process. A young South American, from Argentina; not a talker, a possibility, there’s something cheeky and ready in him, her ‘type’. A pause. There’s a scenario … he’d like to try out. He toys with his new bauble buried between his wife’s legs. Her eyes are closed, giving nothing away. Cliff talks on. A business meeting here, at home. Not now, but when she’s healed, readied. He will ring for papers. His wife will volunteer to help, she is close, she knows where they are. She will enter his office, bundle in hand, wearing the shortest of her Chanel skirts, that red one, with the fringe, and her six-inch Louboutins. Then just as she hands them across the desk the papers will be dropped, the whole lot. She will bend, on all fours, and pick them up. Slowly. Searching. Her rump high and square to this stranger.

His test.

Which Cliff will watch.

‘No knickers.’ Connie nods, feeling the wave of complicity, the stirring, washing through her despite herself.

‘Of course. And most importantly – my lovely, lovely new trinket.’ He strokes it with his thumb.

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