Shameless Exposure (7 page)

“What sin has Jocasta committed?” said Robert.

“She’ll have gone into the red zone again, third time. Regina’s being very understanding to let her stay.”

They heard a shriek and a strained voice from the other side of the door. “No, please, not that.”

“That doesn’t sound understanding to me,” said Robert.

“Legs apart, Jocasta. Now repeat after me: I must not come…”

“I must not come…” Smack.

“Until the day of the moon…”

“Until the day of the moon…” Smack.

“Delivers me to…”

“Delivers me to…” Smack.

“The animal spirit.”

“The animal spirit.” Smack, smack. “Again please, Jocasta.”

“I must not come…” Smack. “Until the day of the moon…” Smack.

Robert looked to Georgina for some help in deconstructing the events on the other side of the door, but she just shook her head.

“You have to trust Regina, she knows what she’s doing. There’s no lasting damage. It’s part of the desensitisation process.”

“But won’t pleasure and pain get mixed up in her head?” said Robert. “It’s gone quiet again.”

“Release her, Wimple Two.”

“Thank you Regina, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“That’s not the lesson. This is the lesson. Up you get. Wimple One, arms and legs please. Make sure she can’t move.”

They heard the teeth of a wooden ratchet being engaged by the turn of a wheel.

“Oh my god, be careful. I’m getting splinters in my bottom. I have sensitive skin.”

“You are learning to control your autonomic system,” said Regina. “Now stop moaning.”

Robert looked horrified and grabbed Georgina’s wrist. “We can’t let the poor woman suffer.”

“It’s for her own good,” said Georgina. “And it’s really not that bad. I kind of liked it. Anybody but Jocasta would have been off the island by now. She’s had problems with tranquillisers and booze. She’s on three month’s leave of absence from her job. The deputy editor is covering for her. Jocasta told me she hadn’t felt a thing for two years but since she stopped the drugs everything has become incredibly sensitive. She only has to touch herself and… boom.”

Georgina’s diagnosis was confirmed by a crescendo of cries from the dungeon. Robert edged to the door so that he could better hear what was going on.

“Can’t we do anything?” he said. “Could we rescue her?”

“She’s on the other side of a locked door and the only other way in is through the shaft down from the courtyard and the steel door. So unless you’re Batman and you want to take on Ness single handed…”

Regina’s steely voice pierced the door: “Continue, Wimple One and Wimple Two, until she learns to control herself. Or would you rather leave the island, Jocasta?”

“No, please, I want to stay. I want… to feel the power… of the vagina spirit… one day.” Her words were interspersed with sharp intakes of breath as she desperately tried to postpone or better still cancel the approach of the next orgasm. Her gasps became rhythmic cries. Robert sat down at his desk but it was ridiculous to pretend he could calmly carry on his research. Georgina hovered, discomforted but fascinated by the sounds coming from the dungeon.

“Christ, I know it shouldn’t, but this is making me feel randy as hell,” said Georgina. “It’s like when we do group practice. One of us sets the others off.” She looked at Robert’s crotch and it was obvious that he was having a similar reaction.

“No, no, please no more…I can’t…oh…yes…yes…YES.” Jocasta’s instruction evidently still had some way to go.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Georgina. “I can’t listen to any more.”

Georgina led him up the stairs and along the courtyard to the spirit room, decked out in yellowish tapestries and scattered with cushions. Above the fireplace was a vivid painting which could have been a ripe fig or possibly a burst pomegranate. Georgina sat comfortably crossed legged on a big cushion. He stood and looked at her, amazed by the symmetry of her oval face. Shiny black hair fell to her shoulders then curled under her chin, framing dark eyebrows and red lips. She ran her fingers through her hair and her robe slipped off one shoulder.

“You asked me if men had any role to play in our practice. Let me give you one possible answer.”

 
Six

“I hope you can finish this tonight,” said Caroline. “I have other things to do you know.”

“I can’t promise,” said Erik. “There’s something missing at the moment. After you left yesterday I nearly stuck a palette knife through it.”

“God that’s weird. I had terrible indigestion.”

“Funny how we have the urge to attack the ones we love.”

“Love? Are you talking crap again Erik?”

“Why don’t you take your clothes off and I’ll get started. The sooner I start the sooner I’ll finish and then you can go and do your more important things.”

“But I thought you’d invited me to that party? I’ve bought a little black dress and some heels with me.”

“Do you still want to come? You don’t mind that I’m going with the friends you disapprove of?”

“Who says I disapprove? Oh dear, was I that obvious with Xena?”

“I thought you were rude.”

“I wasn’t rude, I was jealous.”

They fell silent. She stripped and slumped on the sofa. He became absorbed in his painting. Her phone rang, shattering his concentration. He harrumphed.

“You might as well answer. The moment’s gone now. But then turn it off like you’re meant to.”

“I’m sorry Erik, really… Yes, hello, yes. Erik, I need to take this now…” She scuttled off the sofa and behind the screen as if it would provide privacy. He tried not to listen to the conversation but it was obviously something about work. She finished the call, killed the phone, and tossed it into her bag of party clothes.

“Problem?” asked Erik.

“The Chief’s gone weird on me. He’s given me special status in the succession plan. I don’t know if it’s just him being American or whether he’s coming on to me. It’s exhausting holding him off.”

She sat down heavily on the sofa. He came and sat with her and put his arm around her. He stared at her face for a long time. Then he got up and resumed painting. She was very still on the outside, holding the turmoil in. It was the second time that day she had wrestled with conflicting emotions. Sandra had rung from the adoption agency. They were having difficulty tracing her natural mother.

“It often takes a little time to make contact even in this computer age,” Sandra explained. “But your case is a particular challenge. Your mother has gone to some lengths to disappear, and of course you know there’s no father named on your original birth certificate.”

“How can people just disappear? What about bank accounts, driving licences? There must be a record of her.”

“Yes, there must. It’s possible she’s changed her name or moved to another country and married there. We’ll keep looking.”

The call had provoked another flash of anger. Not with the agency, they were obviously trying their best, but with her anonymous mother who was unreasonably hiding in the shadows when she really needed her. Maybe this was a mistake. The signs were not good. She suddenly realised she might hate her natural mother. How would that feel?

“Chin up,” said Erik.

She raised her eyes to Miss August who had developed a healthy bloom since the day before. She tried to think more positively of Erik’s latest muse. She must cultivate Xena’s friendship because she wouldn’t know anybody at the party and at least they had a common friend, if that was the right word, in Erik.

When Erik started to put away his brushes, Caroline emerged from a reverie and padded round to view his work. Her face had changed: the hard mouth was now imbued with sadness and longing, and the rigid body had transformed into a soft and vulnerable animal. It made her cry.

“Get dressed,” said Erik. “You definitely need to go to a party, and I do too. Today was a breakthrough day. I struggle and struggle then suddenly I know what I’m doing.”

♥ ♥ ♥

When they got out of the cab there was no difficulty identifying the location of the party. The street was vibrating to an Algerian beat, fast acoustic guitar flying over drums and bass, a hot oasis of sound in the cold damp London night. They waited some time at the door before a woman with piled up hair and a glass of red wine in her hand let them in. It was dark in the hallway, the grey and black décor sucking the light into the walls and carpet. Erik pulled Caroline through to the kitchen, searching for a drink. Bottles and glasses were lined up on zinc counters. Pans and ladles hung above a central cooking station. Craig was holding court, a spitting grass joint in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other.

“Hi Craig,” said Erik, “this is my old friend Caroline. You might want to talk to her. She’s big in medical instruments. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“I’m not that old,” said Caroline.

“A really sweet lamb tagine with apricots and dates,” said Craig, with the enthusiasm of a TV chef. He slashed one-handed at a bunch of coriander, chopping it neatly with the heavy knife. “It won’t be ready for a while. Help yourself to Omar’s booze – and his grass, here…” He took another deep lungful of blue smoke and passed the joint to Caroline, who, not wishing to appear uncool, put it to her lips hesitantly and breathed in a little.

When she returned to the kitchen after a long coughing fit in the toilet under the stairs, Erik was in conversation with Xena. She stood next to them clutching a glass of white wine and waiting for an opportunity to be nice to Xena. After a while Caroline realised she was unlikely to have anything to offer to a conversation about the latest generation of up-and-coming interior designers, and headed to the front room where Omar and his impromptu band were hitting their high notes.

Two beautiful African women in bright dresses and headscarves danced loosely, raising their arms high above their heads towards the ornately plastered, if slightly cracked, ceiling. They gestured to Caroline to join them. She kicked off her heels, gulped down her wine, and let the desert song transport her to a place where she could dance without self-consciousness.

She copied the movements of the two women, gradually loosening her hips and the tension in her shoulders. At the end of the song, the three women applauded the band, and the band conferred briefly before launching into a faster number which pulled more dancers onto their feet. Soon it was a heaving throng, but Caroline and her two dance tutors remained in the centre of the room, under where the chandelier would once have been, the other dancers giving them room to move freely.

At the end of that song, it was the three women who were applauded, much to Caroline’s amusement. She was enjoying herself for the first time in ages. She thanked her dancing companions and went off back to the kitchen in search of Erik, or failing that, stew.

She poured herself another glass of chilled Chablis – and sidled up to Craig, pushing between two young women, not much more than school girls, who were standing close to him while he stirred the pan.

“Are you having a good time, doll?” he asked.

“Yes thank you. Omar’s really good, isn’t he?”

“Do you want some of this?” He handed her another joint and she managed to take a puff without choking.

“Have you and Xena been together long?”

“Depends what you call together. We don’t own each other. We share rented accommodation and sometimes other things too. What about you? You married?” He slipped his free arm around her waist.

“Four years. I haven’t been to anything like this since I was a student.”

“You deserve a break. Come upstairs after we’ve eaten. Xena and Erik are planning something – you’d be welcome too I’m sure.”

“That’s kind of you to think of me but as I said, I’m married, and…”

“Suit yourself. It’s a free country.” He removed his arm and tasted the stew, analysing the flavours before tossing in a big handful of salt.

She had been having a good time, feeling young and free, and now she was feeling old and narrow-minded… and hungry. She ate a couple of olives and a strip of pita bread, and washed them down with wine. Apart from Craig and his coterie, the kitchen was filled with hungry people with no mates looking at smartphones. She felt an overwhelming need to check her messages and emails. Maybe Robert had managed to get off the island? She ran upstairs to look for the bedroom where their coats had been taken.

She opened a door on the first landing. It was no brighter than any other room, but it was steamy and smelled of fruit. Peering in, she saw an enamelled bath in the middle of the room surrounded by flickering candles and the glowing faces of several men and women, drinking and smoking like it was any other room in the house. There were two women in the bath, Xena at one end and a skinny woman at the other. Erik sat on the edge of the bath massaging shampoo into Xena’s hair.

“Close the door, darling. There’s a terrible draught.” Xena turned her face towards Caroline. She looked completely different with wet hair, her cheekbones prominent, her lips even fuller wet with bathwater. The woman at the other end of the bath giggled, slid down into the soapy water, and tickled Xena’s breasts with her toes. “I’ve been telling Maude about the vagina spirit and the Orgatron Training Centre. Everybody’s going there. I’m going to sign up for a month in the Scottish centre as soon as I’ve cleared my overdraft.”

“I’m looking for the coats,” said Caroline.

“You’re not going already?” said Erik.

“Yes, I think I will,” said Caroline, feeling like a fish out of water. “I was just looking for my phone.”

“At least stay and have something to eat,” said Erik. “Craig said it would be ready by eleven.”

“Yes, you must,” said Xena. “I haven’t had chance to talk to you properly. Maude, you must be wrinkly by now. Get out and let Caroline get in. I want to know how she got on at the Orgatron Centre. I’ll run some more hot.”

“I’m not sure,” said Caroline. Caroline felt powerless to explain that for all the scrapes she had got into a couple of years ago, climbing into used bathwater with a stranger was a step too far. But the grass and the wine prevented her mind from coming up with an objection acceptable in bohemian circles. Maude stood up, a few rose petals sticking to her shiny body, and a gallant observer passed her a large towel. Caroline peeled off her LBD, tights and thong, and dived into the good end of the bath, away from the taps, Xena having generously swapped ends when Maude got out. Xena swished the stream of new hot water to that it circulated around Caroline, and she had to admit that the deep murky water felt lovely.

“Now I want to know more about you. Go away Erik, I want her to myself.” Erik did as he was told and left the bathroom. Xena began her interrogation of Caroline, who told her everything, even about the extremely bad things that happened in Croatia. Xena laughed and said it sounded incredible.

“You must join us later in the top bedroom. You seem to have the right experience, and the right attitude.”

“No, I don’t,” said Caroline. “None of that was really me. One thing led to another. I am enjoying this party, though. It reminds me of a different kind of life, a life of freedom and possibilities. Unless you’re right at the top, management is serfdom with responsibilities.”

“I wouldn’t know, darling. I’ve always done my own thing. It gets me into trouble sometimes but I couldn’t live any other way. Now, have you started the Orgatron training? What do you think of the vagina spirit?”

“I’m afraid I missed my appointment. I went to the wrong address. I went to Brompton Row instead of Old Brompton Road and something very strange happened. I looked it up afterwards on the Internet. It was a place called Gladstone’s, a Victorian themed bordello. Officially it’s just actresses acting the part in big pants and costume jewellery but the men are paying the girls to act out their sordid fantasies. The maid didn’t speak much English and I had a misunderstanding with a Chinese man.” Xena was amused by her story and said she loved being taken by surprise.

Half an hour and two more top-ups of hot water later, Xena gestured for towels. She allowed herself to be carefully dried by a helpful young man, and Caroline did the same, for the helpful man had a helpful friend. She held her arms high so he could dry under her arms. They dressed and by the time they were back downstairs bowls of lamb tagine were being ladled out by the tallest of the African women to a queue of hungry party people. Xena and Caroline took their bowls into the front room and sat on the floor to eat the delicious thick stew.

A young man with neat black hair sat down beside her and ate his stew with a serious concentration. She recognised him as one of the young men who had been helpful with the towels. When he had finished his bowl, he turned to Caroline.

“Wow, that lamb was tender. And the chickpeas melted in my mouth. And I love coriander. Shall I see if there’s more?”

“Perhaps just half a bowl, if everyone’s had some,” said Caroline. “And could you see if there’s any Chablis left? There might be a cold one in the fridge.” He took her bowl, happy to be of service, and returned with fresh supplies of food and drink.

“I’m Merlin.” He offered his hand.

“The wizard?”

“Yes. My parents were hippies. I was conceived at Glastonbury. I’ve got used to it, but it’s always a talking point when I go for job interviews.” There was a pause in their conversation while a joint was smoked in a communal ceremony of post prandial contentment.