His House of Submission. Justine Elyot
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cuffs. Didn’t you?’
I was under the spotlight, on the spot. There was no feasible response to this other than a good deal of squirming and evasive body language.
But something told me that Jasper Jay wasn’t a man who would stand for squirming and evasive body language.
‘Didn’t you?’ he persisted. ‘There’s no point trying to deny it. I see it in you.’
‘Do you mean to say that you read my article, placed the advert in the hope that I’d respond and, and …?’
‘Had you hired on the spot? Yes. My agent knew she had to give the job to Sarah Wells. So when Sarah Wells walked into the office … bingo.’
He clicked his fingers and beamed with delight.
My toes were curled right under and I realised that every muscle in my body was held in a state of supreme tautness, as if in preparation for some kind of desperate death-match. Did it mean I was scared? I didn’t feel scared. Not exactly.
‘But why?’
‘You’ve seen my collection. I had hoped to leave it until later in the summer, when you’d finished the more … orthodox … portion of your task and my filming schedule was complete, but it can’t be helped, can it? Even my strict timetable can be subject to sudden changes.’
‘Why did you come back? I thought you were in France till August.’
‘So did I.’ He sighed, sipped his wine. ‘Our leading man disagreed. Ridiculous bastard went and got his leg broken in a jetski accident. Next movie I make, I’m having everyone, cast and crew, living in a barracks and having to apply to me for passes to get out.’
‘Control-freaky.’
He smiled at me again.
‘Yes.’
I appeared to have finished the wine. Christ, that was quick. I needed to sip from the glass, for my hands to have something to do besides shaking.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ he said. I watched his fingers, long and white, stroke the stem of his glass. ‘Unless you want to be.’
‘I can’t help it,’ I said, a tad mutinously. ‘This situation isn’t covered in Emily Post. I don’t know what to say or do, or …’
‘Just say what you feel. Do what you feel.’
‘In that case –’ I put the glass down with an overstated flourish ‘– I’m going to bed.’
He shrugged and smiled, watching me make as dignified an exit as I could.
‘Sweet dreams,’ he said when I reached the door.
I looked back at him. His face was shadowed, his brow low, the smile a Hollywood-white tease.
I fled.
I turned the key in my door lock and sat down on the bed, catching my breath. Situation out of control. I had to try and slot the different pieces of the night into place, discipline them into making some kind of sense.
One: I shagged Will.
Two: Will showed me Jasper’s collection of BDSM gear.
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 he removes the strop from its hook.
‘Now, my love,’ he says, pacing behind me. ‘You know I never get angry with you and I am not angry now. I know, however, that you are angry with yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, dearest.’
I tilt my pelvis forward, bend a little at the knees.
‘And in order for you to forgive yourself, the matter must be dealt with so that you can feel refreshed and prepared for a new start. Is that not so?’
‘It is so, dearest. Oh, I am so sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I will admit to some disappointment, Sarah, and some sorrow that we find ourselves once again in this position. Let this punishment be swift and sharp and then all can be forgiven, if not forgotten.’
Not for a few days, at least.