Three: Jasper caught us and fired Will.
Four: It turns out he hired me because I wrote that article.
My mental cataloguing stopped here, unable to proceed.
He hired me because I wrote that article.
Jasper Jay, the film director and winner of the Palme d’Or, had read my silly little piece on Victorian kinksters and hired me on the strength of it.
Why had he gone to those lengths? Weren’t there professional evaluators of this kind of thing? Could he not have got somebody from an auction house?
I felt creeped out, as if he had stalked me, which, in a way, he had. Where was the boundary between stalking and headhunting anyway?
What did he really want?
I lay down and let my thoughts drift around my head. The sensible course was clear. Tomorrow I would pack my bags and leave. This was all too weird and potentially disastrous. Shame about the money though and …
Practicalities grew vaguer, blurring away. I still held the razor strop in my hand and its particular heft and texture beguiled me into fantasy. Jasper Jay, in Victorian times, my Victorian husband, with impressive sideburns and a cravat, sharpening his razor on the leather.
Me on the bed, in my bodice and pantalettes, trying to fasten my corset.
‘You should get Jenny to do that for you,’ he says, and I watch his hands move as he plies the blade, swipe, swipe, swipe, from the top to the bottom.
‘That’s what I meant to tell you, dearest,’ I say, and my voice shakes. I’m nervous.
He puts down the razor, one eyebrow raised.
‘My love?’
‘Jenny … and I … that is to say … we had a difference of opinion.’
‘Oh?’ I watch his fist close around the strop.
‘It was nothing really but I’m afraid I lost my temper.’
‘Have we not discussed your impetuous humours?’ The question is couched so gently, so reasonably, but my heart jumps to my throat.
We have many such discussions. Discussions that don’t involve a great deal of actual discussion.
‘I know, dearest. But I’m afraid I lost my head for one moment and I … slapped her.’
He sighs, lowers his head, puts a hand to his brow. He is at the end of his tether, I know, and I have worked so hard on my self-discipline, but we both know that my impulses overpower my will too often.
‘And she has left?’ he says in a low voice.
‘I’m afraid she has, dearest.’
‘And she will explain the circumstances to the agency and we shall be on their black list. Another black list.’
I cannot deny it. I fidget with my corset laces, wrapping them round and around my finger.
‘Shall we discuss this now?’ I ask in a small voice.
‘Oh, yes, I think the more immediate the consequence, the more beneficial the lesson, don’t you?’
‘Yes, dearest.’
He waits for me. I know what I have to do. I remove the corset and take my place at the foot of the bed, gripping the carved wooden footboard for grim life. I hear the little clink of metal as