by Carmen Quick
‘Then I’m even more disappointed in you,’ Mr. Forsythe interrupted. He walked towards the glass edge of the building, looking down over the buildings below. I was amazed at how quiet it was in here, despite being in the middle of the city. ‘Lilly,’ he said, more gently now. ‘If you’re having problems, you’re meant to come to me. I told you I’m here to help. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is, now, can I? I want to help to look after you.’ He turned to face me, and I could tell he was upset.
Was he upset that I hadn’t been to visit him sooner? He barely knew who I was. I’m amazed he had remembered my name, to be honest, in an office of so many employees. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said limply.
‘You must come and see me, if you have something you need to discuss,’ he said, then less kindly, added: ‘As for gallivanting around with your boyfriend, making a fool of yourself on a Friday night, well… that’s your own choice.’ His cheeks were flushed again. Was he angry?
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I said quietly. ‘Kieron is just a friend.’
Mr. Forsythe seemed to be thinking about something for a while, as he bowed his head, and remained silent. Finally, he beckoned me over to the glass. ‘Come here, Lilly,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’
I walked up to the glass and looked out at the city. Even some of the skyscrapers weren’t as tall as we were, and I could see their roofs. I looked further down and saw the tops of many more buildings, then I saw the roads, full of miniature cars, barely moving, and the sidewalks, crammed with teeny tiny people walking in all directions. I began to feel quite dizzy.
I hadn’t stood on top of a building and looked down like this since I went up the tower at the Pleasure Beach when I was seven years old, and I fainted, and Dad had to carry me down.
I felt the blood running out of my cheeks. Please don’t faint.
‘You have a choice, Lilly,’ Sheldon said, standing beside me now. ‘You can either be down there, walking past all these buildings, your head down and your earphones in, blocking out every opportunity that comes your way… Or you can be up here, with me, looking upon it all, remembering why you made your decision.’
I nodded, swaying slightly, feeling seasick.
‘I’d like you to visit me once a week, Lilly,’ Sheldon said. ‘I want you to report to me, to tell me how you’re getting on.’
‘Sir,’ I said dizzily. I wanted to ask him why he was so interested in me, why it meant so much to him that I took this role in his company. But instead I felt my knees go weak, and then everything went black.
*
The ceiling was white. Pure, sleek white. Not a single mark or stain. It had been painted perfectly.
I closed my eyes again, weak.
Where was I?
I felt the warm softness of leather under my arms and legs. I let my hands explore the leather, grabbed onto the sides. Okay, there were sides. I was in a chair. A leather chair. Gradually, I opened my eyes again.
Sheldon Forsythe was standing over me, looking down at me. ‘Lilly? Are you okay, Lilly?’
‘I’m okay… I think. What happened?’
‘You fainted,’ he said. ‘I was worried. You need to get your blood sugar up. When did you last eat?’
I shook my head. ‘Last night,’ I replied. ‘I had some pasta…’
‘You’ve had nothing today?’ Mr. Forsythe shook his head, and walked away from me. I heard him pacing, but still felt too weak to move my head. ‘Lilly,’ I heard him say, somewhere to my right. ‘I’m going to make sure you eat properly. While you’re under my employment, I feel that it’s my responsibility.’ I heard him pace a little more. ‘I’m going to ensure you get proper meals, while you’re here,’ he said. ‘How much do you normally eat?’
I reeled at such a personal question, but still felt compelled to answer: ‘I don’t know… Not enough. I get so busy. My mom and dad eat before me, so I usually just snack when I get home from work…’
‘One meal a day?’ said Sheldon, walking over to me, anger in his eyes. ‘That’s terrible. You need to eat more. You could do with putting on a little weight, anyway. Get some meat on your bones.’ He looked down at me, more tenderly now. ‘Let me look after you, Lilly,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll make you a diet plan. I’ll email you a list with exactly what I want you to eat each day, and I want you to follow it. No exceptions. Do you think you can do that for me?’
Still dizzy and weak, I found myself nodding. I was hungry. I had been skipping meals lately. A lot of meals.
‘Good,’ he said, satisfied. He handed me a glass of water. ‘How do you feel now?’
‘I’m alright,’ I said, taking a few sips. ‘I think I’m okay to go back to my desk.’
Mr. Forsythe helped me up. His strong palms encircled my waist, helping me to my feet. He held on to me for a few moments, making sure I wasn’t about to faint again.
‘Thank you,’ I said. Those strong hands, so big and warm, felt amazing just millimeters from my skin, separated only by the thin cotton of my dress. In fact, I enjoyed the sensation of his hands on me so much that I felt suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly.
He held on to me for just a second more, and then his hands slid away. ‘I’ll see you next week, Lilly,’ he said, as I began to walk towards the door. ‘Look out for my emails in the meantime. Remember to do as I say.’
‘I will,’ I said, holding on to the nearby dresser for support, making sure I wasn’t about to have another funny turn. I noticed a book lying on the dresser, and picked out a strange, unfamiliar word in the title. ‘Infantilism,’ I said aloud, running my fingers over the book cover.
Mr. Forsythe coughed behind me. ‘You’d better go now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
I looked up at him apologetically, noticing how flustered his expression was all of a sudden. I remembered coming in the room, how Mr. Forsythe’s eyes had flicked over to the dresser, no doubt to this book he’d left lying here. Was he trying to tidy up before I entered the room today, but he’d forgotten to put this one away? Why shouldn’t I see it?
‘I’m sorry,’ I said automatically. ‘I’ll leave now. Thank you for your help today. Thank you for not being mad at me.’
Mr. Forsythe nodded, and I left the room, the skin around my waist still tingling where his hands had touched me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Teacher's Pet
When I got back to my desk, Tegan was looking pissed. ‘What the fuck, Lilly?’ she asked. ‘Where have you been? I thought you’d done a runner.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I told her wondering how many times I’d apologized today, and it wasn’t even midday yet. ‘I was upstairs, talking to Mr. Forsythe.’
Tegan raised her eyebrows. ‘Come on, Lilly, call him Sheldon. Everyone else does.’ She pretended to be getting on with her work for a few moments, but obviously had more she wanted to say. She turned back to me. ‘What were you talking to him about, for all that time, then? Spill the beans.’
It was my turn to pretend to be busy then, lifting up pieces of paper and moving them across my desk, as if I was filing. Really, I was just concentrating on trying not to blush. ‘I’m learning shorthand,’ I told her. ‘He’s helping me with my revision.’
Tegan frowned. ‘Helping you? What, like, tutoring you?’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘He’s given me a load of notes I have to read over in my spare time, and he’s enrolled me for an exam next week. I just needed to talk to him about it this morning.’
‘Well you were gone an awfully long time,’ said Tegan. ‘Be careful. You don’t want to get a reputation as teacher’s pet…’ Tegan turned back to her work, put on her headphones and began typing.
I switched on my monitor and entered my password. I tried to think peaceful thoughts. Five new emails: two from tech support, one round-robin, one email confirming my membership to a press images website, and one email from Mr. Forsythe. I ignored the others and clicked on that one.
Lilly,
Please ensure that you eat the following today:
Lunch
Tuna pasta salad (no mayonnaise)
Wholemeal roll
Banana
Snack
Flapjack (oats and raisins - no chocolate)
Dinner
Chicken and vegetable stir-fry (sweet and sour)
Brown rice
Yoghurt
Bedtime (10 p.m.)
Warm Milk
Sincerely,
Mr. Forsythe
CEO at Global Media Inc.
I know I’d agreed that Mr. Forsythe would help me out with this, but seeing it there on my screen, in black-and-white, it felt strange. I did have a problem with food. I’d always had one. It’s not that I was anorexic, I was just terrible at remembering to eat. I always seemed to get distracted, there always seemed to be something else to do that seemed more important. A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with anemia. It hadn’t progressed to a very serious stage, but the doctor gave me some iron pills and told me to change my diet. More leafy green veg, meat, fish, brown rice, nuts seeds and pulses. I’d been determined to sort myself out on the way home from the doctor’s surgery, to buy myself a nice big steak and some curly kale. But, as always, I forgot. And I kept on forgetting. I still took iron supplements every day, and my health was back to normal, but I did find myself getting pale and tired very easily these days, and I knew I needed to be more careful, to avoid complications in the future…
So perhaps, as weird as it was, I’d give it a go. As I read over the words in the email, all those delicious-sounding food-words, I actually felt my mouth begin to water. I felt something else too. A deep, warm thrill, somewhere in my core. It felt kind of amazing. Someone was telling me what to do; exactly how to live my life – what to eat, how much work to do, when to go to bed. So funny that he’d asked that I drink warm milk before bed, like I was a little kid who needed help nodding off.To be fair, I did tend to sleep quite late; I’d normally go to bed at eleven or even twelve, if I got distracted reading a good book, or watching a movie, and yet now, I had clear instructions. Mr. Forsythe knew what was best for me, and he was expecting me to carry out his instructions to the letter.
I felt another thrill at the thought he might be watching me somehow. Observing me to check I was obeying him. I’d never had this sort of attention from someone before. It felt oddly exciting.
Tegan glanced over at my screen and I minimized my inbox, hiding the email, and bringing up a boring Word document about planning permission instead. It was for some non-story I’d been asked to research, just to keep me busy while I was still learning the ropes.
Tegan looked away again, and continued typing. Why did I feel the need to hide Mr. Forsythe’s email? Did I feel, deep down, that there was something wrong with it? Or did I enjoy knowing that I was keeping a secret? I wasn’t sure.
I had thought, briefly, as I got into the elevator after leaving Mr. Forsythe’s office this morning, that I might tell Kieron about this. But I’d very quickly decided against it. I’d felt myself pull away from Kieron once Mr. Forsythe saw us in the street. I feel like, if we hadn’t seen him that night, we might have carried on drinking, and maybe I’d have ended up sharing a drunken kiss with him… But seeing my boss standing there, so tall and erect, his moody eyes fixed on me, had made me want to keep my distance from Kieron.
I’d started thinking about Mr. Forsythe, too. I’d started thinking about him every time I took a shower, and in the moments before I fell asleep in bed. I thought about him as I took the subway into work, feeling the seat vibrating beneath me, sending shivers up and down my thighs, across my abdomen, into the recesses between my legs.
As I thought about him now, I felt the muscles in my ass begin to clench, and my thighs begin to tremble. I felt soft and warm between my legs, and found myself tightening and releasing my muslces, letting my groin rub gently, almost imperceptibly on my desk chair. I replayed the meeting I’d just had in Mr. Forsythe’s office in my head. The glasshouse. The fainting. The red leather chair. Those eyes, looking down on me. Infantilism. That word suddenly came back to me, from the book I’d seen lying on the dresser.
I opened my internet browser, and typed it into Google. I clicked on the first result that came up, Wikipedia, and read the following:
Paraphilic infantilism, also known as autonepiophilia and adult baby syndrome can be a sexual fetish for some that involves role-playing a regression to an infant-like state.
I hid my internet browser and took a moment to catch my breath. Sexual fetish? Infant-like state? Had I read the title of that book correctly?
My heart was drumming in my chest. I felt so warm and wet between my legs, but I was scared, too. Terrified that I was uncovering something that shouldn’t be uncovered. That I was on the cusp of something far bigger than any of the idle gossip I’d been hearing around the office since I started.
I needed some air. I’d go and get some lunch. I knew what I needed to have.
Just then I noticed another email pop up. It was him. Shaking, I read it:
Meet me at Tambara, at 7pm tomorrow night. I will buy you dinner, and give you an explanation.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cards Are On The Table
Tambara was the most expensive restaurant I had ever been to. I could tell that before I had even set foot in the place. It wasn’t the restaurant I saw Mr. Forsythe outside the other day, when I was with Kieron. This one was even deeper into the pricey end of Midtown. The door of the restaurant did not have a menu outside, advertising its food. Instead, the restaurant name was presented in elegant gold lettering, and the archway leading inside was woven with hundreds of tiny, bright flowers, forming a sweet-smelling lattice to welcome its customers in. It must have needed re-weaving every couple of days, and was surely at least eight hours’ work. It was absolutely beautiful.
I took in a deep breath of jasmine as I walked through the archway and into the restaurant.
Inside, it was even more exquisite. The walls contained intricate wooden carvings, and the candlelight shone in such a way that gentle, shapely shadows danced across them, drawing the eye around the artwork in all directions. On each table was a beautiful cut-glass vase, containing sprigs of lavender, filling up the room with their sweet-smelling perfume.
I could also smell cedar wood and spicy miso, fresh fish and the sharpness of lemon. It was a feast for the senses, and it was heavenly.
The waitress, a beautifully-groomed Japanese woman, in a tight, seashell-pink kimono, walked me over to a private table in the corner. Mr. Forsythe was already there. He watched me walk over to him, his expression hard and severe. When I sat down, he softened. ‘Lilly,’ he said gently. ‘Thank you for coming.’
The waitress handed me a menu, and I thanked her, feeling woefully out of place in this beautiful environment. I was wearing a fitted blue dress, made out of t-shirt material, with three-quarter length sleeves. It felt both too frumpy and too casual. I never seemed to get my outfits right. ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I said pathetically, waving my menu around in the air out of embarrassment. Sometimes I really was a goofball. ‘So what’s the best dish here, then?’
‘I’ve already ordered for us,’ Mr. Forsythe said. ‘You won’t be needing the menu.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ I put the menu down. I knew my boss was controlling what I ate, but surely not when I was out at a restaurant? I’ve never had the opportunity to go to a fancy place like this in my life. I was kind of disappointed I didn’t at least get to pick one thing off the menu.
‘I’ve been here before,’ he said, as if sensing my disappointment. ‘I know the best dishes.’ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if savouring his surroundings, and then his gaze flicked back to me. ‘They make their own silken tofu here. The wasabi is grated fresh. The spicy miso with lobster is a specialty. I’ve ordered plenty. Don’t worry.’
I felt embarrassed; I didn’t want him to think me ungrateful.
>
The waitress appeared, said something which sounded Japanese to Mr. Forsythe, and he nodded, handed her the menus back, and then said something in Japanese to her. ‘There are over 40 types of saké on the menu,’ he told me. ‘Wait until you try this one.’
The waitress brought over a small ceramic flask, along with two small, cylindrical cups. She bowed and then walked away.
‘Juyondai,’ said Mr. Forsythe, ‘is a much sought after, rare brand of saké. It’s produced by the Takagi Shuzo brewery, which was established in the seventeenth century. The brewery uses old methods but also experiments, making its output both traditional and ground-breaking. This saké here,’ he motioned at the flask, ‘is Ryugetsu Junmai Daiginjo Hyogo Toku A Yamada Nishiki.’ He paused. ‘Toku A is the highest grade of Yamada Nishiki that money can buy. You’ll see in a moment when we taste it. There are subtle hints of aniseed, but it’s floral too. Exquisitely delicate.’