LITMIR.BIZ

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cotton number and Jasper took off his hoody and slipped it on.

      ‘I feel like Lord Byron,’ he remarked, lacing it tight.

      I handed him a cravat, a plain blue one with little gold trefoils, not wanting to overegg things since the waistcoat was so gaudy.

      ‘It seems pointless to dress up like this when what I’m planning involves getting it all off again,’ he commented. ‘Still, every scene needs a bit of build-up.’

      ‘I don’t think we should …’ I opened, a little tentative.

      ‘Should what?’

      ‘I mean, the furniture is all authentic. Including the beds. I’d rather not …’

      ‘You’re afraid I’ll damage them?’

      ‘I have to work here,’ I said, biting my lip.

      ‘Nothing is going to get broken,’ he said. The waistcoat was on now and he looked good. Wicked good. The jeans didn’t really go so well, but from the waist up he was the perfect Victorian gent. All he needed was extravagant facial hair.

      He dug into the ottoman and drew out a pair of tight riding breeches. He noticed my salacious eyeing of them and said, ‘You’re still dressed. Why is that?’

      ‘Oh. I …’

      ‘Is there a corset in there?’ He peered into the depths.

      ‘I told you. We don’t wear real corsets.’

      ‘Well, that must be remedied. I’ll take you up to town on your day off. I know a woman who makes the most amazing pieces. Expensive, but you’re worth it. In the meantime, a chemise and some drawers will do.’

      I unbuttoned my jeans, glad to have an occupation for my restless fingers.

      ‘What’s this film all about then?’ I asked. Surely it couldn’t be a porn flick? Perhaps it was.

      ‘Sex,’ he said, grinning and strutting around in his riding breeches. ‘My God, I should wear these more often,’ he said, slapping his thighs. ‘I feel like a panto principal boy. Where are the matching boots? And, most importantly, the riding crop?’

      ‘Is there a riding crop in the film?’ I asked, my mouth now dry and the words sounding small and fearful.

      ‘Whatever I want to be in the film will be in the film,’ he said, posing in front of the chimney-piece mirror. ‘So, yes, I’d say a riding crop was a given.’

      He turned to smirk at me.

      I was wearing my bra and a pair of linen knee-length drawers, the type with a flap at the rear that could be opened to reveal the buttocks.

      ‘But what’s the script about?’ I persisted, wishing Jasper would, for once, give a simple answer to a simple question.

      ‘I’m sorry. You’re getting anxious again, aren’t you? You finish getting dressed and I’ll tell you.’

      He sat down in a plush armchair, watching me release my breasts then cover them again with a short, light chemise.

      ‘The script’s about social inequalities in the nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to shine a light on present-day conditions. The Poor Law translating to benefit cuts and so forth. The central relationship is between a cruel upper-class bastard and his hapless maid.’

      ‘It sounds rather grim.’

      ‘It has a happy ending. She makes him see the error of his ways. At least, it’s happy for her, because she inherits his wealth when he commits suicide.’

      ‘God, we aren’t re-enacting that bit, are we?’

      He laughed. ‘No. We aren’t re-enacting anything. We’re just role-playing around the theme, I think. Nothing is set in stone quite yet. I want to see how these scenes will work.’

      ‘What scenes?’

      ‘Our cruel upper-class bastard feels threatened by the maid’s serene acceptance of every humiliating burden he casts upon her. He senses her resilience and her fortitude and it makes him mad. He wants to break her spirit. He is the Victorian patriarchy, do you see, getting increasingly wound up about the growing demands for female emancipation. He knows he isn’t going to get away with crushing them for ever, but he’ll have a good go in the short term.’

      ‘I see. Very deep. And this metaphorical spirit-crushing gives you the chance to film loads of kinky whipping scenes, am I right?’

      ‘Of course! And why not?’

      ‘It won’t do much to quell those rumours about you,’ I cautioned.

      ‘Oh, I think I’m coming to terms with that,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘In every life there comes a time when we have to own to what we are. Don’t you think?’

      ‘It’s a dangerous philosophy.’

      ‘I like danger.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘And so do you. Or you wouldn’t be here.’ He reached out and brushed my hair – which was loose in a non-Victorian style – back from my temples.

      ‘Addictions are dangerous,’ I said.

      ‘And you’re addicted?’

      I nodded.

      He cupped one breast in its flimsy chemise, taking back ownership of my body, as if he’d ever lost it. The kiss, when it came, was intense and devouring.

      ‘I think I know the feeling,’ he whispered, breaking off, his brow leaning against mine. ‘Now. Let’s play.’

       Chapter Two

      There was a scene, or so he said, in which the relationship between Cruel Bastard and Stoic Maid was established, and this was the one he wanted to try out first. It was to take place in the drawing room.

      ‘I don’t have the script,’ I objected.

      ‘It doesn’t matter. I know roughly how it goes. All you have to do is be obedient and do as you’re told, without being sulky or bratty about it. That’s the maid’s character. She takes everything, but there’s an unspoken strength in her that makes her obedience a form of defiance. “Do your worst,” she’s saying. “You can’t ever break me.” Do you think you can play that?’

      ‘I can try.’

      ‘OK. I’ll be by the fire – we’ll have to imagine it’s lit – drinking the ruby port I happened to bring with me. You come in and stand in front of me and I give you my opening spiel. Clear?’

      ‘Why don’t I get to wear the black and whites?’

      I was still in no more than drawers and chemise and, to be honest, the October night being what October nights are, I was rather wishing we didn’t have to just imagine the lighting of the fire.

      ‘I prefer you like that. Artistic license. Now, no more quibbling, Miss, or you’ll be quibbling with my riding crop.’ Which he had also brought with him.

      He went into the drawing room, leaving me in the hall.

      I waited a minute or two for him to pour the port, hoping he’d be careful with the crystal. But I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t – he was, after all, one of the world’s foremost collectors of Victoriana. He was the last man to be careless with it.

      What should I do to get in role? I wondered if Jasper could give me any tips – he used to be an actor. But it was an easy enough part to play. It was the part I always played with him.

      So I straightened my back and knocked on the door.

      ‘Come.’

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