I look at the boy’s clothes for the first time, as he comes to a halt in the bedroom, Anne hot on his heels. He’s far from grungy: his pale-grey skinny-fit trousers are well cut, his shirt is casual but crisp, in a charcoal grey with light military styling. Rolled-up sleeves reveal strong forearms. My eyes travel down. In the low light of the bedroom with its closed curtains, his leather brogues gleam, freshly polished.
Seeing me size him up, he smiles shyly yet with – or at least it seems to me – a certain inner confidence in the fact that I am liking what I see. I think enviously of what his life must be, imagine him sauntering through university corridors on the way to lectures, turning heads as he does so, both female and male. Who could remain impervious to his charms? I wonder how many people he’s slept with, whether he swings both ways. He’s got the kind of looks that appeal to both boys and girls. And if he’s up for this experience with Anne, with me, then won’t he have been willing to experiment in other ways?
I’m jealous, imagining all this – his freedom, his openness. My university experience was so different because of my having got myself tied down so quickly with Nate. I wonder now if I did that because I was afraid, afraid of choice, of liberty, of going for what I really wanted. Why tie myself down so early, denying myself during one of the most sexually fruitful times of life, if not because I am terrified of my own urges?
Now, feeling those urges towards the boy, I am still terrified, but at the same time I realise that to deny them would be to deny my inner nature, my real self. Sure, it’s risky, showing someone that you want them. You risk rejection, humiliation. But at least you’ll have known, and not spend the rest of your life wondering about what could have been, if only you’d followed your instincts, if only you’d dared.
Standing here before him, I wish fervently that I could wind time back and relive those university years without Nate by my side, like a comfort blanket, or a shield. Did I ever really love him, or was that just my excuse for taking the safe way out?
The boy’s eyes flicker from mine to the bed, and he smiles. I smile too, and then we both look, knowing who’s in charge here, at Anne. She is turning away from us, but it’s only, it turns out, to take a seat in the corner of the room. Once she’s settled, she looks at me with the mixture of haughty froideur and smouldering intensity that I am coming to know so well.
‘Strip,’ she rasps, breaking the almost unbearable silence.
I don’t need to be told twice; my clothes are off in a matter of seconds. And despite my shyness in the face of this Adonislike creature, I revel in my nakedness. I’m so up for this, I could scream.
‘Now you,’ says Anne. ‘Boy. Strip.’
Looking bemused rather than humiliated by her curt and dismissive way of addressing him, her apparent desire to belittle him, he too undresses. But the way he does so is more slow and contained than me, as if he’s keen to assert some kind of control here, or if not that then at least to let her know that he is no mere toy willing to bend to her in every way, like a sapling submitting to the force of the wind. I admire him for that, feel even more turned on. He seems to know who he is.
First comes his shirt, button by button. As he pulls it away from his hairless chest and his lightly muscular arms, he folds it and places it on the bedside cabinet. Likewise with his trousers, after sliding them down his slender hips and over his ankles and feet, having already untied his shoelaces and slipped off his expensive, handsome brogues. Last come his black stretch boxers, emblazoned with the word ‘Spank’ across the front of the waistband. I think for a moment of James, of the wooden paddle I applied to his arse, and of his obvious relish of my actions. Will Anne get her box of tricks out again now, and if so is spanking in store, or something else? Does this boy want to be spanked? Has he been spanked before? Do I want to spank him?
These are the questions that spring into my mind as I stand, proudly naked, almost triumphantly so, in front of them, thrilling to their eyes on me. The boy wants me – so much is clear from his expression. His eyes are bright and eager, his lips slightly apart, the bottom one snagged between his top and bottom teeth. Anne’s face is harder to read. There’s a distance in her eyes, as if, despite being the mistress of ceremonies, she is also retreating somewhere, going deeper inside herself, to some dark and hidden space to which no one but she can have access. I wonder what lurks there: memories, fantasies, images beyond the reach of words and reason?
She’s like a spider, sitting there in her corner, patient after the long and laborious task of constructing a web. Which means that we are the flies – trapped, helpless, able only to wait her bidding, or the coup de grâce. The sinister image excites me even more. I feel as if my very destiny is in Anne’s hands, inheres in what happens here, in this house, as long as I am brave enough to stay here and trust in her guiding star, even if it is a dark star.
My breasts are in my hands, my fingertips toying with my nipples. The boy is looking at me, questioning now. Perhaps he’s growing impatient. I stare back, trying to tell him with my eyes that nothing here is down to me, that I am unable to act. Surely he’s worked that out by now?
‘Take him,’ barks Anne, releasing us from the delicious pain of the wait.
I step forwards, exulting, the cat that got the cream. I push him down onto the bed and he yields, an invitation in his eyes.
7: The Diary
I AM A puppet, I think as I step into the shower, with the smell of the boy, his sweat, his seed, still on me. Part of me wants to stay dirty, to retain him: who knows if I will have him again, if I will ever even see him again? I have absolutely no idea who he is or where he comes from. Have no idea where Anne found him or how she persuaded him to become involved in her game. I daren’t hope that she might let me near him again, and I tell myself I should be grateful that, for the first time, she allowed me satisfaction. I know that orgasms aren’t everything, that sex is as much about the build-up, but the way she has denied me up to this point has left me frustrated. Having come, and come hard, I feel a sort of release. I feel as if I might break free.
Fingering my pussy, the burn of the climax still there, or rather returning after the numbness that immediately followed it, I think about the boy. The sex was awesome, and I’d love to have him again. Not to want that would be very curious indeed. But there was something missing too. Despite his physical grace and beauty, or perhaps even because of it, and despite the mystery of his identity and the reasons for his involvement in Anne’s schemes, I don’t feel for him what I feel for James – the sense of an inner necessity, a drive towards him. Perhaps it’s because, being so young, he’s a sort of blank canvas. Whereas James has years and years, decades, of experience that I would like to know more about. James calls to me potently, like a map demanding to be read, an intricate network of pathways and roads that might lead me to places I never imagined even existed. Something glimmers in James.
And so I know that I can’t break free, that I must stay here, in the hope that Anne allows me to pursue my obsession with James, lets me continue my exploration of this complex and beguiling character. Or at least lets me carry on to the point where I feel we don’t need her any longer, where I feel comfortable making contact with him independently of her. For the moment that’s not something I dare to do, not until I understand more fully the hold that she has over him, the intricacies of their relationship. I’m afraid that making an approach might bring the whole edifice of Anne’s scheme, whatever it may be, crashing down around me, spoiling my chances for good. Until I know more about what’s in it for James, and what he really thinks of me – whether I am really only a puppet, or a means to an end, for him too – then I daren’t act. Anne holds me in the palm of her hand, and for the moment that is where I have to stay.
Sitting on my bed in my towel, I find myself overtaken by a need to write – about everything that’s happened to me over the past couple of days, and how I’ve felt about it. I’m not sure where this urge springs from, but I imagine it
’s my way of making sense of things and of working out where to go from here. As such, it must be a healthy impulse rather than a need to dwell or a justification for self-indulgent outpourings.
I have a notebook – the one I used to take to cafés when I wanted so much to be a writer but couldn’t think of anything to write about. But it’s a mess, all smudged, full of doodles and little in the way of literature, like a chart of my wandering mind. I take it out of my bag and then cast it aside: it’s depressing. I want a new book for a clean start, even if I am writing about something murky. It’s a symbolic thing: a fresh chapter has begun in my life, and I should begin on page one of a pristine, virgin notebook. I start pulling on some clothes, thinking that I’ll take a stroll over to Paperchase and treat myself.
Then I remember Anne’s words about meeting at four to take some dictation, and I frown. Of course, I should be happy that at last she seems to be giving me some tasks to do – tasks outside the bedroom, that is. But I don’t understand her need to dictate letters to me. These days, with word-processing applications, doesn’t everyone just type their own correspondence directly onto their screen? To do otherwise seems only more time-consuming – time-wasting, in fact. But then Anne doesn’t go about things in the same way that other people do.
I cast aside the jeans that I was about to pull on in favour of something a little more grown-up – a knee-skimming asymmetrical pencil skirt that I team with a baby-pink tulip-sleeve blouse. Both are from charity shops, but together they look quite smart without making me look like I’ve gone to too much trouble. As the sister of someone who works at Vogue House, I’ve not been able to escape the infection that is fashion-consciousness. I just haven’t had the financial clout to let it really become a part of my life.
When I’m dressed, I apply a modest amount of make-up: my skin is sun-kissed from my walks in the park, so I need only a touch of rosy blush on my cheeks, a brief caress with the wand of my mascara brush, the merest hint of transparent lip gloss. It’s a question of style, of not wanting to look like the dog’s dinner or someone who cares too much. Something that the French, as it happens, are generally very good at. But it’s also a question of Anne’s perceptions of me. So far, she’s seen only the frivolous side to me. No, frivolous is not the right word; I don’t know what is. But she certainly hasn’t seen me in any way that could make her take me seriously, as her assistant, as someone with aspirations to be part of the literary world in which she moves.
When I’m ready, I sit on my bed, unable to concentrate, and count down the minutes until I’m due to see her again. Time goes slowly and, despite my earlier doze, I find myself falling asleep again. My emotions are exhausting me. And all the sex, of course.
I wake suddenly. Anne is in the doorway; it must have been the door opening that roused me. She’s smiling, but it’s a pained smile – even, perhaps, a sadistic one. With one finger she’s tapping the face of her watch.
I sit up, smooth down my hair, looking sheepishly back at her. ‘What … What time is it?’
‘Five past four,’ she says. ‘Did you forget we had an appointment?’
I shake my head, remembering again the times I was ordered to my headteacher’s office to be scolded, told to buck up my ideas. Years ago, but the humiliation still scalds my cheeks.
‘Well then –’
‘I didn’t forget. I … I …’
‘You fell asleep, on my paid time. Not a good start.’
I stare at her. I want to tell her how ludicrous that sounds, when all I’ve done so far is drift around the house or the park, waiting for her summons. A summons that, when it comes, is nothing to do with assisting her – or not in any sense that was implied by the job ad. And also what’s five minutes? It’s almost as if she was waiting for an excuse to pounce, to reprimand me.
But I choke back the words, force a placating smile to my lips. ‘I’m sorry.’ I stand up and walk towards her.
She’s side-on to me now, already turning to leave, but it soon becomes apparent that she’s not expecting me to follow her, that she’s changed her mind about the dictation – if she ever really had any to do. Her eyes are reproachful, her stance rigid.
‘Don’t disappoint me, Genevieve,’ she says.
I swallow. This seems like an overreaction, but I can’t tell her that. There are so many things I can’t tell her. Can’t tell her how much I want James, for instance, and that that’s one of the reasons I’m still here, putting up with this shit.
So instead I keep my mouth shut and simply nod in response.
‘Let’s reschedule for tomorrow,’ she says and, when I nod again, adds, ‘Two o’clock.’ She pauses, for effect it seems to me, then: ‘Don’t be late.’ Then she is gone from the room before she can see the grimace on my face.
After she’s gone I’m puzzled, and then I’m angry. How dare she talk to me like an errant child, I think, for such a minor transgression? Sure, what she said about me falling asleep on the job was fair enough – it’s out of order. But it’s hardly as if she’d laid out strict ground rules, made it known that punctuality was key. Quite the opposite: she was so free and easy, so undemanding, that I fell into a false sense of security.
After mulling all this over and still feeling hard done by, I’m overtaken once more by the impulse to write everything down in the hope that that might help me make sense of it. A change of scene will do me good too, so I wait until there are no sounds from the rest of the house and, hoping that Anne is locked away in her study and that our paths won’t cross, head downstairs and then out of the door into the street.
It’s still sunny, and I try to relax as I walk through Bayswater, letting my limbs be pervaded by warmth. Try to imagine that life is uncomplicated, that it’s just another summer’s day and I don’t have a thing on my mind. Of course it’s impossible to kid myself, but just being out of the house does provide some relief.
I choose a chic leather-bound notebook that I immediately dub my ‘little black book’ and, when I’ve paid for it and a sleek new pen, I head for a nearby café and flip through the blank pages, wondering how long it will take me to fill it, and what it will contain. The future gapes wide open, both beckoning and frightening. Appetites have been awakened in me that I didn’t know existed. If someone had told me last week what was going to happen to me, the things I would experience, over the coming few days, I wouldn’t have believed them. But they have, and now I must face the consequences.
I pick up my pen and, after reopening the notebook on the first page, begin to write all this down, a torrent of words issuing forth from my pen. The force of it shocks and delights me. It’s as if a dam has been breached in me, and the rush is intense – almost as intense as the sex I’ve been discovering, the new ways of loving and being loved. For the first time in my life I’m not struggling to find the words or the subject matter but am borne along by a kind of delicious lucidity that is so foreign to me that it’s as if I’m only an instrument, channelling something I barely comprehend. Suddenly I have a muse, and that muse is sex and longing. Things to which I devoted very little thought, that I took for granted, before Anne Tournier came into my life, or I came into hers.
For an hour I write solidly, and then I stop and have another latte and sit and watch the world go by from my window seat overlooking the bustle of Queensway. Where before I’ve paid little real heed to people, being always so bound up in my own world, now I find myself fascinated by just about everyone, wondering what they’re really like, what they really get up to, behind their closed doors, in the secrecy of their homes, between the sheets. Suddenly everyone – the women in hijab, the Chinese waitresses on their way to work, even the street-sweepers – has the potential for hidden depths that I never considered before, because everything I did was surface.
Ideas start to come to me then, little vignettes and sketches for characters that might develop into something when I have more time. I scribble furiously, barely able to keep up with the mental flow that h
as been unleashed, and then I pack up my notebook and pen and head back to the house, feeling elated and liberated. As I suspected, writing up my feelings about Anne, James and the whole strange set-up at St Petersburgh Place has given me some perspective on it, made me feel more philosophical about it and more in control. I can say no, I realise, if Anne starts to think she can get away with more than is acceptable, or if she thinks she can order me around or treat me like shit just because she is paying my wages. I can let go of this if I want to. For the moment, though, I don’t want to. I don’t want to precisely because, for the first time in my life, the ideas and the words are coming thick and fast, and I know that this development has been precipitated by the events of the past few days.
And so I reach the house calmer than I left it, and, when I see Anne in the kitchen, I can be mellow and friendly. Sensing perhaps that I am less nervous in her presence, she is less agitated, a little warmer. She asks how I have spent the afternoon, and I tell her I’ve been writing and feel happy with the way it’s gone. She tells me she’s been doing the same, and we agree that there are few finer feelings than those of being productive and creative.
As she leaves the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand, she turns back in the doorway.
‘Don’t be shy,’ she says, ‘about showing me your stuff, when you are ready. I’m always happy to cast a critical eye.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I say, but my smile is really a wince. The last person I’d show what I’ve been writing today is Anne. She may have defrosted a tad, but I don’t trust her one bit, and for that reason she won’t ever know what I’m feeling about any of this.
The Apprentice Page 10