‘I’m sorry. You’re getting anxious again, aren’t you? You finish getting dressed and I’ll tell you.’
He sat down in a plush armchair, watching me release my breasts then cover them again with a short, light chemise.
‘The script’s about social inequalities in the nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to shine a light on present-day conditions. The Poor Law translating to benefit cuts and so forth. The central relationship is between a cruel upper-class bastard and his hapless maid.’
‘It sounds rather grim.’
‘It has a happy ending. She makes him see the error of his ways. At least, it’s happy for her, because she inherits his wealth when he commits suicide.’
‘God, we aren’t re-enacting that bit, are we?’
He laughed. ‘No. We aren’t re-enacting anything. We’re just role-playing around the theme, I think. Nothing is set in stone quite yet. I want to see how these scenes will work.’
‘What scenes?’
‘Our cruel upper-class bastard feels threatened by the maid’s serene acceptance of every humiliating burden he casts upon her. He senses her resilience and her fortitude and it makes him mad. He wants to break her spirit. He is the Victorian patriarchy, do you see, getting increasingly wound up about the growing demands for female emancipation. He knows he isn’t going to get away with crushing them for ever, but he’ll have a good go in the short term.’
‘I see. Very deep. And this metaphorical spirit-crushing gives you the chance to film loads of kinky whipping scenes, am I right?’
‘Of course! And why not?’
‘It won’t do much to quell those rumours about you,’ I cautioned.
‘Oh, I think I’m coming to terms with that,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘In every life there comes a time when we have to own to what we are. Don’t you think?’
‘It’s a dangerous philosophy.’
‘I like danger.’
‘I know.’
‘And so do you. Or you wouldn’t be here.’ He reached out and brushed my hair – which was loose in a non-Victorian style – back from my temples.
‘Addictions are dangerous,’ I said.
‘And you’re addicted?’
I nodded.
He cupped one breast in its flimsy chemise, taking back ownership of my body, as if he’d ever lost it. The kiss, when it came, was intense and devouring.
‘I think I know the feeling,’ he whispered, breaking off, his brow leaning against mine. ‘Now. Let’s play.’
Chapter Two
There was a scene, or so he said, in which the relationship between Cruel Bastard and Stoic Maid was established, and this was the one he wanted to try out first. It was to take place in the drawing room.
‘I don’t have the script,’ I objected.
‘It doesn’t matter. I know roughly how it goes. All you have to do is be obedient and do as you’re told, without being sulky or bratty about it. That’s the maid’s character. She takes everything, but there’s an unspoken st
rength in her that makes her obedience a form of defiance. “Do your worst,” she’s saying. “You can’t ever break me.” Do you think you can play that?’
‘I can try.’
‘OK. I’ll be by the fire – we’ll have to imagine it’s lit – drinking the ruby port I happened to bring with me. You come in and stand in front of me and I give you my opening spiel. Clear?’
‘Why don’t I get to wear the black and whites?’