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  Simon had sounded normal, and not particularly submissive either. That was the most worrying fact of all. Speaking to him on the phone had made me feel as if I’d been making a business appointment with him, rather than setting up a time to satisfy his alternative sexual needs. He’d talked about the traffic. He’d even made me laugh. The tone of his voice told me that this was somebody who was accustomed to calling the shots. I imagined him as a powerful, high-net-worth individual who was both comfortable with himself and unashamed of his aberrant desires.

  I hoped he wouldn’t be as normal in person as he had sounded on the phone. No, I hoped he would be odd-looking in some way; in fact, that I would find him physically repulsive. If I did, it would make it easier for me to label him. A cringing supplicant with twisted fantasies … just like those faceless clients I’d spoken to so long ago.

  Chapter 6

  By the end of the day I’d had eight more phone calls. Two callers, phoning from private numbers, had hung up immediately, without speaking. One woman had been looking to buy samoosas and was overcome with confusion when she realised where she’d ended up. One giggling teenage boy had yelled, ‘Whip me!’ before disconnecting. Four, though, had been genuine callers. I now had a second booking, for next Thursday afternoon, from a softly spoken man who had given his name as Lowly.

  I knew now that there was a demand for my services, but there was so much still to do.

  So far, my new venture had only the following:

  1. A dungeon (painted black, currently occupied by Goth tenant, probably smelling of spaniel).

  2. A mistress (sans outfits).

  3. Credit for one classified advertisement (after I’d phoned and complained about the incorrect insertion).

  I urgently needed to expand on this inventory, and with my limited budget I knew I had to try to utilise what was available. My first stop took me out of the garden gate and down to the stables.

  Whips, spurs, leather. There was surely some gear in here that would be suitable.

  Goodness kept the small tack room clean and tidy. Nonetheless, it was a sad place, a room full of equipment that, even before Mark’s accident, had become ever-increasingly neglected.

  In an empty water bucket, I found three whips. One long and narrow, two shorter. The shorter ones were tough and sturdy with rubber handles and thick leather flaps on their ends. I also found a pair of spurs – and there, wrapped in a towel, were a pair of polished, knee-high, black leather riding boots. Those I could certainly use.

  Only one saddle remained – I’d sold my other two, but I’d kept their spare stirrup leathers and the gleaming stirrup irons. They might also come in handy.

  I found a set of thick black felt stable bandages once used to wrap my horses’ legs. Now thinking increasingly creatively, I realised they would be perfect as makeshift ropes for tying up my slaves. So would the reins, which could be knotted around wrists and ankles. The leather halter could be used as a body harness. I could even recycle my black suede gloves. I had visualised myself wearing shiny patent leather, elbow-length gloves, but in the meantime these would do perfectly.

  My tack room had, in fact, offered up a cornucopia of domination delights. Although my shopping list was still frighteningly long, at least I now had some of the essentials.

  I picked up one of the shorter whips and stared down at a folded blanket, imagining it was the naked buttocks of one of my clients.

  ‘You’re going to have to take some tough punishment now, you pathetic little wimp,’ I announced. I lifted the whip above my head and brought it down hard. There was a dull, thwacking sound as the heavy fabric absorbed the impact and a small cloud of dust puffed out.

  I hit the blanket over and over until I was putting all my force behind the blows.

  How painful would a beating like that feel if it landed on human flesh? I would have to learn to judge how hard to hit. Some clients would be able to handle more pain than others. Some would want visible marks left; others not.

  As they might plead for the punishment to be stopped, there would need to be a safe word in place. Some would enjoy begging for it to end, knowing their requests would be cruelly ignored and their calls for mercy disregarded. I would need to be able to draw the line. To learn my slaves’ limits and judge how much each one of them could take.

  ‘Er – excuse me, ma’am?’

  I spun round, realised I was still brandishing the whip, and lowered it in a hurry.

  Dressed in blue overalls, work boots, and his precious yellow Kaizer Chiefs baseball cap, Goodness stood just outside the open door. He was staring at me with a worried expression, as if he was concerned about my apparent lack of anger management skills.

  ‘Ma’am, are you going to ride?’

  Beyond him, I could see the long, brown, expectant face of Admiral, the seventeen-year-old, peering hopefully over the paddock fence.

  It was clear that Admiral wanted to go for a ride.

  ‘Yes,’ I found myself saying. ‘Could you put his saddle on, please, Goodness?’

  I rushed back to the house to get my jodhpurs. How long had it been since I’d worn them? They were right at the back of my cupboard and, when I attempted to put them on, I found they were shamefully tight; so much so that I broke out in a sweat as I wrestled the ribbed fabric up over my thighs.

  A while later, red-faced, I tottered downstairs again, put on my boots and hard hat, and went over to the low wall that I used as a mounting block, where Goodness and Admiral were waiting.

  I’d thought that Admiral would be as unfit as me, but it turned out that he’d done a better job of keeping himself in shape than I had, and he was desperate to show me the extent of his joy at being ridden again. He jogged and pulled and pranced, giving playful mock-shies at dangerouslooking bushes. His excitement infected Ace, the twenty-two-year-old. He came thundering down the field to join in the fun, and at the sound of his hooves, Admiral took off with me and galloped the whole way down the fence line before I was able to pull him up.

  Twenty minutes later, when he’d finally calmed down and was walking sensibly, I decided to call it a day. I was feeling more refreshed and energised than I had done in a long time. I rode back up the field with a smile on my face, and as I did so, I heard my name being called.

  ‘Mrs Caine? Hellooo, Emma?’

  Looking in the direction of the voice, I saw Gillian Bettiol, who was my neighbour on the eastern side. Wearing a large, floppy straw hat and carrying a pair of secateurs, she was standing in her immaculate garden and waving at me from behind the palisade that separated our properties.

  I turned and trotted Admiral towards the fence. He stopped a few strides away and snorted suspiciously at her hat.

  ‘Keith and I have been needing to speak to you about the area by your tenant’s cottage,’ she said.

  The tenant’s cottage, aka my future business premises. What the hell?

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s very overgrown and it’s shorting out the electric fence. Plus, it looks really messy. It really is the most incredible eyesore and it’s right in front of us when we drive down our driveway. It needs tidying up.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ I said, and I’m sure she could hear in my voice exactly how empty that promise was. There was absolutely no way, at this present time, that the overgrowth concealing the entrance to the folly was going anywhere. I needed it to be there. And I didn’t need any prying eyes going near it.

  ‘If you could see to it, that would be great.’ Now there was steel in Gillian’s tone. ‘Perhaps Keith should speak to your husband about getting somebody in, so we can be sure it gets done. I do think that living in this area, we need to take a pride in our properties and keep them looking presentable.’

  I stared down at her. This spoilt, selfish, rose-growing, pampered housewife with a filthy-rich husband. So immersed in her own little world that she hadn’t even bothered to greet me properly. Hadn’t even thought to ask how I was.

 
‘Thank you for your opinion, which I have noted,’ I said. ‘As far as clearing that area goes, I’ll look at doing it in winter, and not before. You obviously don’t know that my husband was badly brain-damaged in a car crash at the beginning of last year. If Keith wants to try to get hold of him he’s more than welcome, but since Mark can’t even speak or walk, I think clearing out our fence line for your aesthetic pleasure is going to be somewhat beyond him.’

  Gillian’s face was frozen in shock; her mouth a perfect ‘O’ under the floppy hat. I didn’t wait for her to regroup her wits. I wheeled Admiral round and we galloped back up the hill towards home.

  Chapter 7

  I woke up the following day aching from head to toe. Every muscle in my body was stiff and tender. My thigh muscles seemed to be welded apart, so that I had to stagger downstairs bow-legged, like

  Buffalo Bill. I had expected to have some soreness after the ride, but I couldn’t understand why my right shoulder and arm were so stiff until I remembered the whip that I’d brought down again and again on the folded horse blanket.

  Clearly, I was going to need to get into better shape. And fast. I wasn’t quite ready to attempt any one-armed push-ups, but perhaps I could embark on a programme of daily horse blanket beatings to build up my strength and stamina.

  Just as soon as I could lift my hand above shoulder height again, I’d look into it. Today, though, I had other priorities.

  I’d been contemplating doing what I was about to do for a while, but each time I’d chickened out. It hadn’t seemed right to sacrifice these items. Now, though, I had no choice.

  ‘Man up,’ I told myself sternly. ‘At least you’ll have a chance of reclaiming them at some stage if this venture succeeds.’

  With some difficulty, and the help of soapy water, I wrestled my wedding and engagement rings off my finger.

  There was one other piece of jewellery that might have some value – a string of cultured pearls, one of my first Christmas gifts from Mark. I’d worn the necklace a couple of times but I hadn’t taken it out of its box for years. I would feel no guilt hocking it. The same could not be said, however, for my rings.

  After a bit of soapy care, my solid gold wedding band gleamed and the three diamonds in the engagement ring sparkled when I put the rings on a folded dishcloth in the sun to dry. I tried not to think about the day that Mark had proposed to me, at the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, his favourite city, or the fact that I’d never taken the rings off my finger until now.

  Then I set off on the hour-long journey that led to the twenty-four-hour cash loan outlet located directly across the road from a large casino complex.

  There was going to be no way to retain even a semblance of dignity during this transaction. Whatever excuse I tried to come up with, however I tried to justify my actions, the reality was that selling wedding jewellery at a pawn shop smacked of total desperation. At worst, they’d assume I was an addict of some sort – probably a compulsive gambler. At best, they were going to see me as a woman down on her luck, and in that regard, they were going to be right.

  An hour later, I drove the Renault into a customer parking lot surrounded by a rust-coloured wall and occupied by a Mercedes Benz, an ancient Toyota Corolla, and a motorbike. A bored-looking security guard closed the gate behind me before returning to his booth.

  I climbed out of the car feeling as if there was a giant finger in the sky pointing down at me and that at any moment a great voice might yell, ‘Look, everyone! There’s Emma Caine, pawning her rings!’

  Head down, I scuttled to the door.

  Inside, it was surprisingly dark, probably because the high windows were shielded by sturdy ranks of metal bars, and one of the strip lights in the ceiling wasn’t working. The cubicles where the two assistants sat were protected by a thick layer of what was surely bulletproof glass. Both of them were busy with customers.

  One customer was a blonde woman who was perched on the edge of her seat with her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face or guess her age. All I could see was her over-processed hair, crackling with splits and static, wisping down onto thin and narrow shoulders.

  The other, who had a motorbike helmet wedged under his arm, glanced round as soon as I walked in. Looking at his narrow, mean-looking face made me wonder how much trade this shop did in stolen goods, and whether this was in any way regulated.

  By the door was a row of plain wooden chairs where a fleshy-looking, pale-faced man sat waiting stolidly. I sat down at the other end of the row, with my eyes fixed on the door.

  ‘It’s got to be worth more than that. You have to give me more.’

  It was the blonde speaking, in tight, hoarse tones. I turned to watch her, horrified yet mesmerised by the spectacle of her begging. The man serving her was skinny, with light-brown buzz-cut hair and hard blue eyes. He looked both competent and uncompromising. A person who wouldn’t budge.

  The genial-looking black man in the other cubicle, now concluding his deal with the gangster type, had a more sympathetic look about him. It was a pity, I thought, as the gangster folded the money into his wallet and walked out, that since the man waiting next to me was now going forward to his window, I was going to get Mr No Mercy when the blonde woman left.

  She was actually crying now. Low, rasping sobs. The man watching her simply shook his head until she fumbled her wallet back into her tatty bag and got up, head bowed, swiping her straw-like hair away from what I saw was a sun-ravaged face. Her legs looked like pipe cleaners inside those skinny jeans.

  She walked out fast, looking at the floor, and I wondered whether she was the owner of the ancient Toyota or the Mercedes Benz, and then decided that she was clearly so far down shit creek that it wouldn’t make a difference either way.

  And then the man behind the glass nodded at me and I got up, heart thumping with nervousness, and sat down opposite him, smelling the trace of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke that the blonde had left behind.

  ‘What do you have?’ he asked, his voice as sharp as his eyes.

  I placed the rings, which I’d put in a clear plastic bag, on the counter. Beside them I put the necklace which was stored in its original container, a smart gold box lined with blue velvet, which bore the name of the specialist supplier on its lid.

  ‘Two rings and these pearls,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Let’s have a look see.’ He opened the bag. Carefully, he took out the wedding ring. Examined it closely, and used a jeweller’s loupe to study its eighteen-carat hallmark. Then he weighed it on a digital scale and scribbled a few notes on a pad.

  The engagement ring took longer; I assumed each of the stones had to be checked in order to make sure they were genuine. I waited, trying not to bite my nails, and resisting the urge to guess what amount I might be offered. The ring hadn’t been cheap, that much I knew, because the central diamond was large. One carat, Mark had told me proudly.

  Like so many of his decisions, the purchase of the ring had been guided by the need to impress rather than by any actual budgetary sense.

  The man behind the counter eventually finished examining my engagement ring. He picked up the box containing the pearl necklace and I saw an expression cross his face – I could only hope that he recognised, and was impressed by, the supplier’s logo on the front.

  He opened the box, took out the pearls, but to my surprise gave them only the most cursory inspection before turning towards me again.

  ‘You want to sell these outright or take a cash loan against them?’ he asked.

  ‘A cash loan, please.’

  ‘You must read through these terms and conditions before filling in the form and signing.’ He handed me a printed sheet of paper. ‘And I need to see your id.’

  I handed it over.

  ‘The necklace …’ He paused, and once again I saw an expression I couldn’t identify cross his face. ‘I can’t take that because it has no value. You do know it’s fake, right?’

  I had wanted so badly to appear po
ised, cool, unconcerned by my circumstances and above all, far from vulnerable. But that piece of information floored me as effectively as if the chair had been yanked out from under me. It literally robbed me of speech. I stared at him wordlessly for what seemed like a very long time as the shock of what he’d said sunk slowly into my brain.

  ‘It can’t be fake,’ I managed eventually, my voice hoarse and pleading, sounding just like the blonde had done. He’d given … that was right. I remembered now. Mark had actually given me a certificate of origin along with the pearls, although where it was now, I had no idea.

  ‘Costume jewellery,’ the man said. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘But you didn’t do any tests …’

  ‘Didn’t need to. Here, take it.’ He put the necklace back in the steel tray and pushed it under the sheet of bulletproof glass. ‘Rub the beads gently

  against your teeth. Yes, like that. Can you feel they’re smooth?’

  ‘Yes. Perfectly smooth.’

  ‘Real pearls feel gritty. That’s just one of the basic ways to tell the difference. But this is obviously costume. The beads aren’t even strung properly, and that clasp is probably made from nickel.’

  I could feel my face going crimson. I wanted to get up and bolt outside, slamming the door behind me, running away from the humiliation and the awfulness and the impossibility of what had just happened.

  Instead, I sat and watched while he pressed buttons on a calculator and wrote down an amount that I could already see would be too little. I needed more to start up my business.

  The pearls. What had happened to them?

  There were only three explanations I could think of.

  One, Mark had lied to me, which I hoped and prayed was impossible.