There had been meals for two by candlelight, but they had always taken place at her hotel or in his office. He had never taken her out, except to events in private houses where she was expected to display her skills of submission. He had often praised her obedience, especially after these gatherings, when she’d lain on a rug covered in semen, all orifices plumbed to their maximum extent. It sounded strange, but he had never hurt her. Only in the ways she wanted to be hurt. He had seemed to know her, and to understand her limits before she even defined them. There had to be something in that, didn’t there? Some level of spiritual kinsh
ip that went beyond the conventional hearts-and-flowers romantic gestures. They had been two, together, complicit against the world. She had thought it love, of a kind. She had been so wrong.
Bitterly she dried her tears and switched on her bedside lamp, hugging her knees to her chest and thinking.
He had tired of her, that was all. Her youthful bloom was fading and, although she practised yoga obsessively, she wasn’t as flexible as she used to be. He had his eye on someone else, did he? Some fresh-faced little innocent straight from school, no doubt, who would look the part and ask no questions and be overwhelmed and flattered at the attentions of this rich, influential older man. God, men were so fucking shallow, after all. All at once she knew who her replacement was. It had to be that little blonde in the change booth at the arcade, so new and fresh and young, hardly more than twenty. Oh, I wish you well, girl. I wish you all the good things I had. And if you’re the one to make him human, then you deserve a medal.
She went to the mirror and looked at her sore, naked bottom. If only I’d known the last marks he gave me would be just that. She pinched the welts, hating the fact that they came from Trewin and not Cordwainer. Now she had nothing of him, no reminders, apart from…She took off the collar and flung it into an obscure corner of the room. “I’m free,” she said aloud. “And you’re going to be sorry, Charles Cordwainer. So very sorry. I might just be an object to you, but I have a mind and a heart and things that are important to me. And I’m going to use them. Wait and see.”
Chapter Seven
Flipp never got letters, so she was quite astonished to receive one, addressed to “The Girl Behind the Change Counter,” care of Caesar’s Palace on the Pier. At least her own real name wasn’t on the small square envelope—that would have been enough to send her scooting back to her bedsit to pack her belongings posthaste. But it was odd nonetheless.
She opened it and studied the small, scrawly hand.
I don’t know your name, but I know you should give Charles Cordwainer a wide berth. Perhaps you’re already involved, and perhaps you think there’s a future for you, but believe me, there isn’t. Take it from one who knows and wishes you well. Find another job before you’re in too deep.
“Secret admirer?” Cordwainer, who had handed her the letter himself whilst sorting through the morning’s post, asked.
“Um, yeah. Something like that.”
“How romantic. I suppose he’s too shy to proposition you over the air hockey table, so he’s resorted to the old-fashioned love letter. A dying art, alas. Is it a poem?”
She shook her head, laughing nervously. “Nah. No poetry. It’s just silly.” She scrunched the paper up and threw it into the bin behind her.
“Ah, another heart breaks into a million pieces,” Cordwainer said with a sly smile. Flipp wondered why everybody was obsessed with the idea that he was after her. He had to be over forty. Still, he was pretty good-looking, if you liked that kind of thing. Suits and ties and stuff. It wasn’t for her, though.
“Between you and me,” he said, alarming her by bending close to the plastic screen of the booth, “I think you’re doing the right thing. I can’t imagine any of the oiks that frequent this place being worthy of you. You’re in a different league to them.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She smiled tightly and pretended to be counting out fifty-pence pieces.
“I’ll need you to work some overtime tonight,” he said, straightening up, suddenly brisk and businesslike again, rather to Flipp’s relief.
“Really? Tonight?” Flipp tried to keep the dismay out of her voice, but she had planned to go over to Rocky’s flat for…dinner. Well, sex. Sex and dinner.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Just a little stock take. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll stand you dinner afterwards. How’s that for a sweetener?”
Rubbish. But Flipp didn’t say it. Dinner with Cordwainer just wasn’t going to compare with dinner with Rocky. But she kept the grudge out of her voice, offering an airy, “Thanks,” before watching him disappear upstairs to his office.
Rocky breezed in an hour later, stopping for his usual brief flirt at the change booth before going upstairs to wait on his paymaster.
“Rocky,” she whispered urgently, opening the booth door so they could hear each other over the relentless bleeping and electronic music. “What do you make of this?” She handed him the scrunched-up note, which he scanned gravely.
“Well, it’s what I’ve been saying all along, isn’t it? But I didn’t write it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Of course not. But who did?”
“I’ve no idea. I don’t recognise the handwriting. But whoever it is, they’re talking a lot of sense. Get another job, Flipp.”
“I’ve told you, it isn’t that easy.”
“Have you tried?”
She sighed. “Okay. I’ll have a look and see what’s going.”
“You do that. There must be a chambermaid or bar job going spare. Just make sure Cordwainer doesn’t own the place first. Then we can go public.” He looked around to make sure nobody was watching and kissed the tip of her ear.
“Is that what you want?” Flipp asked, suddenly flooded with hopeful joy. Rocky spoke as if they had a future. She hadn’t even thought about the future, in any form, until now. She had expected to carry on living in the moment forever.