Justine Elyot - His House of Submission

Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.

He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.

‘Sarah?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’

‘You’re scarlet.’

‘Am I?’

‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.

‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.

‘Well?’

‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?

‘Bring it down,’ he said.

‘Now?’

He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.

My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.

When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.

I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants , burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.

Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.

‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’

He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.

I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.

He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.

‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.

It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.

He frowned.

‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’

He bent closer and then drew in a breath, raising his eyes to mine. I held myself perfectly still for a horrible second, then he smiled the most radiant smile I had ever seen.

‘Oh, I see ,’ he said.

I had nothing to say. I stood there, panting a little, wondering why my legs wouldn’t let me run away.

He wrapped it around his hand, slowly, making sure I paid attention.

‘What shall we do about this?’ he wondered aloud.

‘I can get it cleaned,’ I repeated.

‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of that. That wasn’t what I meant.’

With a tremor of shock, it occurred to me that I had been meaning to leave, so all of this was technically avoidable. The thought crashed into my head but I didn’t want to let it in. I didn’t want to leave now. I wanted to know what was going to happen. I wanted to read the next page of the story.

‘What did you mean then?’ I whispered.

‘What am I going to do with you?’

The pan hissed and spat behind him. He sighed and turned his attention to it, putting down the strop and picking up the spatula.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘No, before you do that, take your bloody bags back upstairs.’

I wanted to ask him what he was going to do with me, since the words hung so agonisingly and tantalisingly between us, but I did as I was told instead, running up the stairs two at a time and flinging the bags on the bed.

Anything could happen, I told myself, racing back down. Anything could happen and I want it to!

The plates were on the table and he was already digging into his food.

‘You look like you could do with a square meal,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in the cupboards. What have you been living on?’

‘Soup, mainly,’ I said, sliding into the chair opposite him.

‘Not that foul packet stuff I saw on the shelf?’

‘Yeah.’ I felt guilty for my consumption of powdered soup. Obviously it was the Wrong Thing to do.

‘That won’t do. You’re going to need your strength, my girl.’

Jesus, what was happening to me? Lightning bolts, electricity up and down my spine and all over my skin. As for my crotch, I could barely sit still, it felt so full of sparks.

‘Am I? For … what you’re going to do with me?’

‘All that cataloguing,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Takes it out of you, I imagine.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘If you’re going to … make me pay … can you tell me how?’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘Eat your eggs. You need protein.’

He refused to refer to the subject again, questioning me instead on my background and education until the food and the mugs of strong tea were all gone.

I wanted to talk about him, since his experiences were so much more interesting than mine, but I sensed that he didn’t take well to interrogation and would dispense information at his own pace. I watched him speak, watched the light and shade fall across his face, followed the expressive motions of his hands. All his animation seemed to be channelled into them, while his facial expressions remained serene and controlled. He is master of himself, I thought, and that made me want to squirm even more.

‘Finished?’ he asked when I laid down my knife and fork.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘You’d better get to work then. Go on. I’ll wash up.’

I hesitated. Wasn’t he going to mention the strop débâcle?

‘What room are you working in at the moment?’ he asked.

‘The, uh, the one with the piano.’

‘The drawing room,’ he corrected me. ‘I’ll be in the study. Come and wait outside in, shall we say, two hours? That’ll give me enough time to devise something suitable.’

Instant shivers. Something suitable.

‘Run along then, Sarah,’ he said with a ghoulish smile. ‘We mustn’t neglect our work, must we?’

But I’m afraid I did neglect my work.

Over and over again I came to with a start, some ornament or other in my hand, after drifting into reverie. If I carried on like that, something was going to get broken. And then what might be my fate? I kept going to the door and looking around it, towards the study, listening. Sometimes I could hear his voice, faintly, making telephone calls, or the tap of a keyboard.

While he worked, he was thinking of me. Thinking of what was to be done with me, for my shameless behaviour with his property.

And while I worked, I was thinking of him. Thinking of how he compelled and disturbed and attracted and repelled me. I had never met a man who could do all those things simultaneously before. Perhaps there was no other man in the world who could.

The hands of all the antique clocks made their slow progress through time until the two hours had elapsed and I put down my clipboard and pencil, patted down my skirt and left the room.

I could keep walking, walk to the front door, walk to the car, get in the car, drive away.

But I stopped at the study door and lifted my hand and …

I heard his chair creak.

I knocked.

He didn’t reply.

I knocked again.

‘Come in.’

The study was a glorious room and his desk was one of my favourite pieces in the whole house. Mahogany with brass handles and a green leather writing area in the shape of a cross, on top of which his computer looked somewhat incongruous. He should be writing longhand with parchment and ink. There was a raised gallery at the back of the desk, along which were perched a procession of film awards, the Palme d’Or in pride of place.

I breathed in the beeswax and stillness, letting it calm my jangling nerves.