by James Grey
My eyes narrow at the thought that she might be naked in the hallways, or at dinner, all by herself. I feel guilty for leaving her. Who else will take her hand? Not Petra, nor Lilia, that’s for sure. In no time at all I have come to feel sisterly about Sarah. Petra…not so much. And yet there’s this kind of fascination with her. A bizarre, warped kind of desire that I can’t shake.
I don’t even want to think about that.
I run my mind through the others instead. Simone seems nice enough. I haven’t really spoken to Diane the American redhead or Carol the pretty, petite oriental. Jane is a false waste of time I want nothing to do with. And Carrie…well she seems distant, but there’s something else about her too. She’s a mystery that needs solving. I don’t know what she’s all about.
I can’t believe so many girls are even here. I can’t believe only one of them ran out so far. Are we all natural-born prostitutes? I can’t be the only one struggling, can I? Or am I? Or…am I doing just fine, maybe?
I feel thankful again that I’ve got Sarah to talk to now. She’s shown me a human side that Petra and Lilia totally don’t have. Latifa and Alyssia are a little too human, intimidating in their enjoyment of…things. At least I have one person on my wavelength. As for the rest, we’ll see what the rest of the week brings. No doubt our paths will cross sooner rather than later.
I heave another deep breath. Just get through a couple more days, Emma. That’s right. Didn’t Miss Jackson say we’d know where we stand after the ‘reaction testing’? I think she did. And it hasn’t been all bad. Stressful enough to give me a headache, yes. A frustrating tease beyond measure at times. But the pleasures I’ve had…oh my. In the moments they have felt exquisite. It’s only afterwards that I’ve over-analysed, and wondered at myself.
And now, just as I’m gathering my wits, I think of my mother. And what she’d say if I confessed where I really spent my time away. Once she understood – which would take a while – she’d cry. My father would be uncomprehending. He’d just gawp at me like a goldfish, shaking his head. If I go into this line of work, will I have to tell them? God no! But secrets are hard work. Will I have to make up an entirely fictional office job? Tell them I’m moving to Australia?
Everything about it makes me want to cry.
And I find myself wanting Rupert here. Here with his arm around me, making it all better.
Chapter XIV
I sit there for some time, blubbing and sobbing like a child. And when I think about why I’m crying, it makes me want to cry more. I feel trapped, like I’ve swum too deep and I’m caught in a rip. It’s reasonable to be overwhelmed by all this, I guess, but falling apart at the seams is not a response I’m proud of.
I bet Petra wouldn’t be getting all hung up on a ‘client’. She wouldn’t be torn to pieces about her vocation. She’s probably never cried in her life. How could a heart of stone produce tears? Somehow that thought makes me choke up again. What a mess.
But the very notion of professional Petra handling all this better than me is enough to make me sit up, wipe my running nose and blink the tears away. Because the idea of her being better than me at something – even if it’s harnessing her chilliness to her advantage – is not acceptable to me.
Come ON Emma! Stop moping – this isn’t you! So I fancy the pants off Rupert, but how can I get like this? We had one date, one shag. I’ll definitely need to be tougher than this out in the real world. Even if I’m never a hooker, actually.
But it’s easier said than done. I doubt I can dismiss him from my thoughts at the drop of a hat. But I sure as hell can stop with the crying and try to do something positive. If I decide not to be a hooker, it’ll be because I choose not to. Not because I can’t.
I look around for some kind of distraction. Some sort of fresh start.
It’s twilight, and it will be for some time. Even though it’s a grey day. I’m somehow feeling even less hungry than before. There’s still no sign of life. It’s almost as though everyone has gone off somewhere without me. Or…are they all fucking?
At that thought, and unexpected twinge of jealousy seizes me for a second. Where did that come from?
I stand up. I feel like exploring on my own. Walking will clear my head, right? And I haven’t really had a good look at the lower reaches of the garden.
I set off further away from the house, feeling the grass get steadily wilder beneath my tennis shoes. This feels naughty, and I’m not sure why. Is there somewhere I’m supposed to be? They did say we could roam free in the garden, yes? Christ, I could be naked right now if I wanted to be.
I slip my fingers defiantly into my back pockets, my thumbs hooked over their sides. I’m heading for nowhere in particular, just enjoying the cool breeze as I drink in deep swigs of clean country air. It calms me, and I start to feel human again.
I zigzag down the garden, meandering aimlessly through the mulberry bushes. I drift beneath a couple of magnificent, stately oaks, all the way over to the ivy-entangled hedge at the left edge of the garden. It’s very shady down here. It’s like the big, aged trees have conspired to bring night to this nook of the garden early.
There’s a sudden gust of wind, and momentarily I’m a little spooked. Being clothed and alone has brought back some of those silly doubts. Have I imagined this whole school business? Did any of that really happen? Have I been set up for something awful? I do wish my brain would stop it. This is just a walk in an English country garden!
A sheep bleats in the distance.
The soil looks damp underfoot. I suspect it never really dries out down here beneath the leaves. The sun’s rays won’t penetrate here. It must be permanently damp.
Penetration. Dampness. Emma…!
I keep moving towards the bottom of the garden, then start as I spot a uniformity in the vegetation up ahead. There’s a green wall. Shit, the maze! I’d forgotten all about it. I raise an eyebrow in its general direction.
The rebel in me has an idea.
What was it that scary mentor woman said? I rack my brains. I’m not sure I was paying much attention that day, whenever it was. I spent most of it being shocked by Alyssia’s outfit, and generally gawping at all of my new surroundings. But hadn’t there been something about a treat at the end of the maze?
I think there might also have been a warning about not going in alone. Or hungry. Or in the dark.
Either way, this is clearly not a good time for the thought I’m failing to push to the back of my mind. Darkness isn’t a million miles away, after all. My pulse begins to pick up. What sort of treat was she talking about? What sort of prize would a group of trainee escorts expect? A giant dildo? Surely there can’t be a man down there twenty-four seven…can there?
The more I think about it, the more I’m puzzled. I guess that’s the whole point of a maze, isn’t it? But I feel like some outdoor excitement will do me good now. And if it isn’t necessarily sexual, that may not be a bad thing.
Rupert’s whereabouts flash into my mind, but I do my best to send that thought packing. Instead I gulp as I make my way towards the gap in the hedge that must surely be the maze entrance. It almost feels good to be doing something that’s a new, pure kind of irresponsible. This may be unsafe and ill-judged…but at least I could tell my mother about it.
I’m cautious as I reach the entrance. Right away, I’m confronted with a choice. Left or right? Already this maze is beginning to feel like a metaphor for my life. And I haven’t even started yet!
I try to remember the movies I’ve seen and the books I’ve read. What is it that you’re supposed to do? Leave a trail of string behind you? Yes, that makes sense. If I do that, then at least I’ll find my way back to where I started. No harm done. But where will I find string?
I look down at my clothing. My jersey! There’s several sheep’s worth of woollen thread in that. I wonder if the idea I’ve got would get me in someone’s bad books…but there’s no shortage of clothing in this place. Off it comes. And I tear it open to
access the start of the thread. It doesn’t resist.
Wow, I’m feeling some kind of reckless.
I tie the end of the thread around the neck of the garden statue – a naked woman eating grapes, of course – that flanks the maze entrance. She doesn’t resist either. She’d get on well in this place, I think to myself.
I’m good to go. It’s fair to say I’m not warm. Probably another ill-advised move, but I feel safe now, because I can’t get lost. I look down at my feeble little blouse. No wonder I’m chilly. I can see my own appetizing cleavage as I peek down the inside of the fabric. I’m slightly turned on. When did that become normal?
One way or another, I can feel my nipples tightening.
I take the left fork and lose myself in the maze. I’m steadily unravelling my jersey, trying to keep up my pace for warmth. Three or four turnings in, and I have no clue where I am. That lady’s warnings were not out of line. I’m thankful I have an escape route.
What’s disconcerting is that the hedges are so high. I can’t crane my neck to get the bigger picture. This isn’t made for fun. It feels claustrophobic in here. The hedge walls tower at least a couple of feet above my head. And it’s narrow enough that you’d have to squeeze to get past someone.
Am I going to meet anybody? Surely some curious and confident soul like Latifa would have tried this days ago? Nobody’s mentioned it. I stop and listen. No footsteps. And I think I’d hear them on this crunchy gravel pathway. There’s a breeze up there somewhere, I know, but I can’t really feel it down here in the hedge tunnel.
I hum softly to myself, trying not to let spooking happen. Chris was only kidding about that ghost, wasn’t he? Anyway, ghosts don’t live in gardens!
This is just a little stroll, I tell myself. I can’t get lost. I look behind me as I reach what must be about the fifth junction. I give a tug on the woollen wire. It’s still tense. I’m a touch relieved. I’m okay.
I turn this way and that, running into dead ends every so often. No matter. When that happens, I go back to the last junction. I have nowhere to be. Twilight is starting to fade, but I’m on a mission now. I’ve dismissed any doubts about what I heard from Miss Whatsherface. There’s a treat! That’s all I’m choosing to remember.
What do I want my treat to be? Rupert? Petra suffering some kind of comeuppance? I’m not sure which I want more.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. My footsteps. A pause every now and then as I realize I’ve hit a dead end. You can’t see they’re dead ends until you’re right upon them. Every time it’s not a dead end, I get a surge of adrenaline, sensing I must be closer to getting somewhere.
All of a sudden, something makes me jump out of my skin. A whooshing sound and a shadow. My heart leaps into my throat and I freeze in terror. Then the bird gets into my field of vision. I breathe again. Terrified by a passing owl.
Okay, fine, I’m getting spooked. What next, bats? I feel my heartbeat thudding in my neck. I listen. Nothing. Even the wind has stopped. No birdsong. I shake my head, and press on.
The twists and turns of the maze are relentless. My glances over my shoulder grow more nervous, more frequent. Suddenly I’m paranoid someone will come along and cut my safety rope.
It feels like I’ve been in this weird world of hedges at least half an hour already, but I’ve probably lost all sense of time. I’m beginning to lose all sense of hope, too. It’s getting darker and I’m scared. Forwards or backwards? I’m less and less sure.
Then I round a corner, and something is different.
Chapter XV
Somehow this is not quite what I expect. At the end of this particular hedge corridor is what looks like a long rabbit hutch. Of the various images I’ve had flailing around my brain on the way here, this wasn’t one. I look over my shoulder once more, half-expecting another all-seeing staffer to appear via some secret entrance. But I still appear to be entirely alone here.
I puff out my cheeks and walk closer. I’ve got goosebumps now – partly the cold, partly the thrill. The rabbit hutch, in fact, turns out to be a squat wooden contraption divided into twelve smaller compartments. The kind of thing in which I imagine they’d keep a bunch of unhappy pigeons. There’s wire mesh across the front of each compartment.
The whole thing stands on tiny legs, and I have to kneel down to see anything at all. There are labels. Yes, each of these little doors has a name on it. They’re engraved in cursive on brass plates. Nice touch. I read. Miss Stoycheva…Miss Veenstra…Miss Carling!
A delicious rush of excitement seizes me as I see my name. Already this little maze jaunt seems entirely worth it. So this is where you have to come to get that childhood Christmas feeling back!
Okay, so these are pretty much just little letterboxes. We had pigeonholes at the office, and they never excited me the way this is doing. But they never held promise like these. What secrets do they hide? Now that I’m closer, I can see that the wire mesh has a dark sheet strung across it, so you can’t see inside any of the compartments. What I don’t see is any sign of a lock system.
My heart thuds and my fingers tremble as I tug on the tiny handle affixed to the frame of my own personal door. For some reason I feel proud that I’m third in line as you read from the left. I don’t think the names are in any particular order, but, still, it makes me feel like I’m well thought-of. Of course, it pisses me off that bitch-face is number one.
But I’ve still got that Christmas feeling! What will my treat be? I look over my shoulder, suddenly feeling guilty. Like I’ve spoilt Christmas Day by rushing downstairs too early. Is this really allowed?
Still nobody.
I must be allowed. My name is on the box!
The door is a little sticky but I get it open. All I can see is an envelope. I stick my hand in and pull it out. Immediately I’m hit by a scent. Perfume. That perfume. This can’t have been here long. I shiver suddenly, my imagination running amok. I’d swear I’m being watched.
I close the door and kneel upright. I could totally open all these doors! I guess it’s an honour system here. Honour among harlots...is that a thing? The thought of nosiness doesn’t stay with me for long. There’s enough anticipation in my own envelope.
I slide my finger under the flap and gently push it up. I’ve always been neat like that. I pull out a thick, folded piece of paper and unfurl it. The writing is in thick, black ink. Tidy, posh public-schoolboy cursive. I begin to read.
Miss Carling,
I have no doubt you harbour certain resentments towards me following our last encounter.
All along, I have been aware that I deserve to be punished for my conduct.
So, I want you to punish me.
You will find me in the same place you found me previously. Come. Now. Hit me.
Yours,
Rupert
My brain spins into a whirl as I read. Of all the…did he read my mind? Rupert knows he did wrong! He wants me! But…punishment? Is that a treat? I’ve got a fair idea of what he might have in mind. It’s not something I’ve ever experimented with. I’m not sure it will come naturally.
I purse my lips, suck in some fresh air, and shake my head slowly. Whatever. This is a command to get back to him. The details will take care of themselves. There’s quite simply nothing to think about.
I’m out of breath when I reach the door of the Lachlan Room. I am so, so thankful for my escape yarn. It worked a treat. I dashed out of the maze in three or four minutes, then ran all the way up the garden. I leapt up the terrace steps three at a time. It’s like there was a burst of energy in that envelope too. And in a way, there was.
Now I’m paused, just for a chance to catch my breath. And I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Clearly I have some way to go before I can ‘be more Petra’ with clients, because the pep talk I just had with myself is far from my thoughts. I was in tears the last time this door closed on me. Now I’m wet with anticipation. And struggling to feel angry. But he wants me to have my way with him. Okay then, Mister Rupert…
Should I knock? How do I know he’s here? Oh, who am I kidding! They’re always one step ahead of you in this place.
The thought crosses my mind to try my best with the dominatrix thing from the off. I should burst in, slam the door behind me, put my hands on my hips and yell at him to get on his knees. He’ll like that. Will he? I shake my head at myself, at the way I’m getting all excited like a teenager, thinking I know all about this man.
Still, they like initiative here, don’t they? Yes, they do. Right, no more timid Emma.
So I don’t knock. I straighten up the shoulder straps of my thin little top, pull up my jeans, and grab the door handle. I imagine it’s the day I quit my job again, and push it open with my best impression of an angry woman.
One instant later, I don’t need to act any more. I am an angry woman. Because what I see chills my blood.
He’s kneeling on the bed, eyes closed and breathing heavily. He has a mighty erection, but I can’t see all of it. Most of it is buried in Petra’s mouth.
Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! I’ve forgotten everything beyond these four walls. The school, the training, the invitation: they all vanish from my brain. And they’re replaced by pure, blinding green-eyed rage.
She just carries on, the slut, like I’m not even here. Ever the pro. Her nonchalance drives me even madder, watching her head go back and forth on him like that. His knees are spread and she’s sitting with her legs between them, flat on the bed.
Rupert is naked, but she’s wearing his shirt, a pair of panties and blue stilettos, with blue lipstick and eye-shadow to match. Nothing else. Her get-up is ridiculous, and it makes me seethe. Everything about this has me boiling. I’m here to punish him, and then only reluctantly. But the daggers in my eyes are all heading the way of my room-mate right now.
He looks over at me and smiles. The moment he does that, my fury switches to him. How dare he hurt me again? And to grin about it…? My eyes narrow and suddenly everything comes into very clear, sharp focus. Fine, I’ll play that role you wanted, Rupert. It’s going to come very, very naturally after all.