Folly (33 page)

And then I saw Bee-Bee do an absolutely classic double-take, and it was her flustered reaction, more than the familiar glimpse of the pearls I'd just seen, that confirmed my suspicions.

‘Um – er …' She blinked, rapidly and fast. Her gaze darted around the room, but for once Gaaa-viiin was not even without shouting distance.

‘She's just someone I know from school,' she finished, developing an absorbing interest in the kitchen surface below her twining hands.

‘Really?' My voice was unsteady. ‘I do believe we have a mutual friend.'

‘Oh, maybe you've met somewhere …'

‘Bee-Bee, she's wearing my pearls.'

My sister-in-law would have been a terrible poker player. Her mouth opened and closed as if desperately trying to voice the lie her brain hadn't yet been able to fabricate.

‘It's not what you think, Emma.' She offered a wobbly smile.

‘You make me sick,' I spat. ‘The lot of you. I'm going home. Make sure Mark's outside, ready to travel, when his transport comes at six, and that you have the cash to pay the driver.'

I unhooked my bag from the back of the wheelchair. Swinging it over my shoulder I marched past her, just about shoving her out of the way as I headed for the door, and freedom.

My house was a half-hour drive from Gavin's but when I got home, I couldn't remember a minute of the journey, or what route I'd taken to get there. All I knew was that I was finally pulling into the driveway, my one-and-a-half headlights cutting through the growing darkness, sickened by the disaster that had had occurred.

I let myself in under the watchful gaze of Sparkle and Cat Four. Bob the Cat was inside, asleep on the couch. He jumped off rather stiffly when he saw me and shambled over to greet me.

Then I took my cellphone out and dialled Simon's number, not knowing what I should say, hoping that when he answered I would be able to stammer out a reasonably coherent explanation.

But he didn't answer.

I sat at the dining-room table with my elbows propped on its wooden surface and the phone pressed against my ear and listened to it ring and ring and ring.

I left a short message: ‘Please call me. I need to explain.'

Then I walked around the house, picking things up and putting them down again, opening the fridge and closing it, with a dreadful chill in the pit of my stomach that grew worse and worse as the minutes passed, and then the hours. I went upstairs and took the box with the artificial pearls out of my bedroom cupboard and opened it and looked at the necklace again. I could not understand how I could ever have confused it with the real one, and I wondered exactly when Mark had substituted the fake and when his betrayal had happened.

I knew I shouldn't call Simon again but I did, at nine that night, just before I got into bed. Again, the phone rang to voicemail but this time I did not leave a message.

I lay in bed listening to the clock tick the minutes away, the occasional noise of a passing car, the far-off snorting of one of the horses.

I was filled with despair.

Chapter 33

S
imon didn't call the next day, or the day after that, and my anguish slowly congealed into a terrible resignation.

I had lost him, and in the most awful way possible, through being exposed for the fraud that I was. Through a breach of trust.

I should have told him the truth of my situation long before that Sunday. He might have understood if I had explained it properly. But I had been too fearful that he wouldn't, and so I had done nothing, leaving him to find out for himself in the worst imaginable way.

I thought of phoning him again but decided it was pointless. He knew I had called. Then I considered more desperate measures – tracking him down at his home, giving a false name, getting him on the phone or else arriving at his work to confront him.

In the end I did none of those. The bald truth was that I was a paid dominatrix with whom he'd enjoyed a few brief sessions – and by pursuing him further I would be breaching not only trust but client confidentiality as well.

I could not do it.

The sense of loss I felt at his silence was ripping my heart apart, but I had no choice but to endure the pain, given that it was entirely of my own making.

For the next two weeks, I focused on my work as much as was possible. I made some adjustments to the website. I put everything I had into the sessions with my clients, even though every time I walked into the dungeon I thought of Simon, and what we had shared there, and about the twisted path down which it had led us.

On Monday morning, I got a phone call that surprised me.

‘Mistress?' The voice was smoky and well spoken and somehow familiar. ‘I am in the area. Could I come and see you?'

I was so surprised by the caller's voice that I thought I must have been mistaken about his identity. But sure enough, when the black Prado eased its way through the gate, the person who eased himself out of the driver's seat was indeed the man I'd thought he was.

Tugging at the cuffs of his perfectly tailored suit jacket, Mr Mashaba strode confidently up to my dungeon entrance.

‘Good to see you again.' He greeted me warmly, enveloping my hand in his as we gave each other the traditional African handshake.

‘What brings you out this way?' I asked.

‘I had a meeting at the conference centre down the road, and realised I was driving back right past your office.'

It was the first time that the humble folly had been called an office.

‘You know,' Mashaba continued, fiddling with his Rolex and looking down at his cufflinks rather than straight across at me, ‘after I left you the last time I was shocked by what happened. Shocked and baffled and amused. But more and more, as I think about what you do, I am intrigued.'

‘Is that so?' I asked, rather taken aback.

‘I would like to try it again, only I must confess that I am not able to handle a lot of pain. But the idea of a powerful woman ordering me around … performing tasks for her … maybe being told off for my mistakes … I don't know why, but I am starting to feel I need it.'

For the first time in what felt like eons I wanted to smile.

I couldn't, of course. Instead I gave him a stern look and said, ‘Well, we can arrange something that will fulfil your needs, I am sure. But we will start very slowly.'

‘That sounds good.'

‘And you have to understand, Mr Mashaba, that my word is law. I will not push you past your limits, but you will be forced to do what I tell you to. Even if that includes a light spanking. Because, sometimes, that is what I like to do.'

‘I will try to be brave.' He met my eyes. ‘Are you available now?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘I have an hour and a half before my next meeting.'

‘Well, don't waste any more time, then. Off you go. Go and strip down to your underpants and then stand in the corner until I order you to approach the punishment horse.'

After Mr Mashaba had left, lightly spanked and well satisfied, I returned to my phone and to my astonishment, saw Simon's number on the missed calls list.

Finally, he had phoned me back. My palms went damp and my heart began to pound.

I listened to the message, but it was short and succinct.

‘If it's all right with you, I'll come past on Thursday morning at nine. If it's not all right, let me know. Otherwise I'll see you then.'

He wasn't making a booking – thank goodness, because I was in no fit state to offer him any kind of domination service. But I was, at least, going to see him.

That meant we could talk, and I could explain everything to him. Better late than never.

On Thursday morning, while I was feeding my furry quartet, I noticed that Bob the Cat was not eating.

A knot of worry lodged itself in the forefront of my mind and refused to budge.

He was sitting by his bowl, looking up at me expectantly with his owllike gaze as if he trusted I'd be able to fix whatever was wrong.

‘Bob, come on. It's from a brandnew bag. Fresh and tasty,' I encouraged him, but he wouldn't.

After a short stand-off failed to resolve this issue, I ransacked the cupboard and unearthed a can of tuna right at the back. The sound of the tin opening drove the other three cats into a frenzy of excitement. Sparkle twined around my legs; Biscuit and Cat Four both leaped onto the counter to try to get at the source of the enticing smell.

When I dished the tuna out, Bob gave the bowl a cursory inspection before turning away and I felt my worry knot twist tighter.

He'd had trouble with his teeth a while ago and had had to have two molars extracted. Perhaps that was what it was now. More tooth trouble.

I poured some of the brine into a saucer and put it down in front of him but although he sniffed at it, he didn't touch it. Even when he had been in pain from his teeth, he'd enjoyed tuna brine.

He blinked up at me with his brilliant green eyes. I leant down to stroke his tabby fur, but he didn't arch his back against my hand like he usually did. Instead he shrank away.

‘Bob,' I said, now highly concerned. ‘What's wrong?'

He turned away from the bowl and as he headed across the kitchen, I saw he was limping.

Christ, he was sick or injured. He had an infection … an abscess …something serious was wrong. I needed to take him to the vet. Simon was due at nine. That gave me an hour. More than enough time.

I scooped Bob up in my arms and headed for my car. I opened the passenger door and put him gently inside, closed it as swiftly as I could, and then got in the driver's side.

Bob realised, too late for escape, that this meant a visit to the vet. He sprang stiffly onto the back of the seat, balanced there for a moment and then, with a yowl of pain, slid back down again.

My whole body felt tense as I pressed the Start button. The Renault choked into life, idling unevenly as I put it into reverse.

But the car refused to budge.

I pressed down harder on the clutch. Eased the gear lever back into place again. Let out the clutch.

The car gave a short, sharp, bunny hop backwards before stalling. Bob gave another unhappy cry and, with some difficulty, put his paws up on the window frame, looking for a way out.

I tried first gear in case it was just reverse that was acting up, but the same thing happened.

Shit, shit, shit. At this critical moment, my wretched car was busy breaking down. The damn gearbox was fucked. There was no polite way to put it. There would be no visit to the vet for Bob this morning; it would have to wait until after Simon had gone, when I would need to call a taxi to take me there and back and then get this useless rattletrap towed off to the dealership to be fixed.

I opened the door and Bob wriggled out and limped away in the direction of the folly.

I followed him, after having unearthed an old copy of the
Yellow Pages
from the box under the hall table that contained the very last of Mark's office stuff. I let myself in and put the heater on before sitting down at the desk and hugging myself for warmth. I was wearing my dominatrix's trench coat, which, although smart, was far too light for winter weather. I needed to invest in a new and thicker garment for the colder months.

I sat down at the desk and flipped the directory to C for Cab Services. At the foot of the desk, Bob looked up at me pleadingly. He was obviously in too much pain to jump, so I lifted him up and placed him in a sunny spot where he started to look more like himself again as he slowly washed his face.

And then, at eight forty-five, I heard the purr of the Jaguar outside and the rattle of the gate as Goodness opened it. Simon was early. Bless you, I thought. Now I can explain to you what happened, straighten things out between us, and then get my cat to the vet.

He parked in his usual spot and I watched him as he walked over to the folly. In a warm and substantial-looking grey ski jacket, he was properly dressed for the weather. The wind was tugging his hair away from his forehead and I could see he looked far more serious than usual.

‘Simon,' I stood up when he entered, but he didn't offer any physical contact by way of a greeting and nor did he smile. Looking at him, those broad shoulders and those indigo eyes felt at once familiar and intimidating. In spite of the fact we'd shared the most incredible physical and emotional closeness, I suddenly felt as if I was standing opposite a stranger. How could I begin to explain to this angry and distant man what had really happened? I groped for the words I would need to apologise for the lies I had told; to acknowledge the hurt I had caused him by allowing his trust to be betrayed.

‘I know I'm early,' he said.

‘No problem,' I replied.

He looked down at Bob and, for the first time that morning, his face softened. He scratched the cat gently behind his ear and Bob responded by rubbing his head against Simon's hand before lowering it tiredly onto his paws again.

‘Please, have a seat,' I told him.

‘No, thanks. I'm not staying long.'

His words caused a coldness to settle in me.

‘I came to say goodbye,' he said, and the coldness turned to ice.

‘G-goodbye? How do you mean …?' I felt nauseous and my voice sounded tight and tense.

‘I'm off to Dubai the day after tomorrow.'

Shocked, I looked up at him, hoping for some clarity, but found I couldn't endure the hardness of his gaze.

‘That's nice. For how long?'

‘Two or three years.'

I let out an audible breath, feeling as if I'd been punched hard in the midriff.

‘But …'

‘We were notified last week that we've won the contract for two other projects in Muscat and Riyadh, and the Dubai project has the go-ahead for its second phase. Someone needs to run a branch office there, and I decided that it should be me. I leave on Saturday.'

‘But what about the Orange Farm development?' was all I could think to say, and his lips tightened.