Folly (19 page)

‘It's your birthday coming up soon,' I told him, feeling my eyes start to sting. ‘I'll bring you a present, ok? Maybe a new jacket for winter. In blue, your favourite colour.'

His eyes were closed. He did not acknowledge me, nor offer one of his rare, vague smiles. I felt awful sitting there, knowing I was going to spend the following night with Simon. However I attempted to justify it, the truth was that it would be a betrayal, and guilt was gnawing at my insides. Luckily, drooling placidly onto the floor, Mark was unaware of it.

‘The house is empty without you there,' I said.

It was true enough. Empty of conflict and frustration, but also empty of spark and emotion. My marriage to Mark had not been perfect. After all, what marriage was? But it had the huge advantage, in retrospect, of having been familiar territory.

Although things had not always been good with my husband, at least I had known how bad they could get.

Chapter 23

I
arrived at The Saxon just before seven the following evening. Paranoid about being late, I'd actually got there far too early and had spent ten minutes driving around the neighbouring streets, sweating with fear that I'd end up taking a wrong turning and getting lost, never to find my way back.

Finally, it was time to make my entrance. I drove through The Saxon's imposing gates, up the winding driveway and, after being given directions by a smartly dressed security guard, parked in a row of bays that seemed miles away from anywhere. No sooner had I climbed out of the car, clutching my travel bag, than a large black Mercedes drew up and the uniformed chauffeur climbed out and opened the back door for me.

Shuttle service to the hotel, Saxon style.

I climbed inside, and spent the stately five-minute journey alternately touching up my lipstick and gazing out at the exquisite frontage of the hotel we were approaching.

I'd expected that the staff would escort me to the dining room, but when I walked in behind the porter who was carrying my bag, I saw Simon was waiting in the lobby. He was chatting to a man in a grey coat whom I supposed was one of the hotel managers. I saw them pointing up at the cornices, no doubt discussing some or other matter of architectural significance. In honour of the occasion, Simon was wearing an elegant black suit.

As soon as he saw me, he strode over.

‘Good evening, Emma,' he said. He stood close to me and took my hands in his own. His grasp was warm and firm. I looked up into his dark blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, and his gaze caught and held my own.

Last time I had seen this man, he had been pressing his hard-on into my back while I clutched at the chains in my own dungeon. Now here I was, ready to spend the night with him, but still I knew virtually nothing about him. Other than that he was generous, had extreme sexual desires, clearly liked cats, and his bum would have scored a perfect ten from any judge in the world.

My bag was whisked away by the porter and I walked with Simon through the splendid lobby and into the plushly decorated dining room where a grand piano was being played and a waiter stood ready behind my comfortable, cushioned chair.

I couldn't help feeling slightly intimidated by the splendour of this setup. And I was terrified of exactly what our night together was going to involve, especially since I'd received the proof of the payment he'd made and it was more than triple my usual fee. Just how I was expected to provide adequate value for this amount of money I had no idea.

As the waiter pulled my chair out for me, I told myself sternly not to be such a scaredy-cat but to think of the positives in this situation instead. At least, for the first time since we'd met, I was actually going to spend more time being paid to look at his face than at his bare backside.

‘What are you thinking?' he asked. ‘I couldn't help noticing your rather wicked expression, for a moment there.'

‘I'm thinking that eye contact has its benefits,' I said. ‘It's difficult to have a meaningful conversation with a pair of buttocks.'

‘I suppose intelligent discussion is somewhat difficult in that situation,' he agreed.

‘And in some cases, simply not possible at all.'

‘At least buttocks don't answer back.'

‘If only the same could be said for their owners,' I observed.

The sommelier then appeared with the wine list, which, to my surprise, Simon handed over to me.

‘Would you like to choose us a wine?'

‘Er …' I said, rather nonplussed. ‘Do you prefer red or white?'

‘Either.'

Again, I had the feeling he was smiling inwardly and not quite letting it reach his lips. Still, I wasn't going to say no to this offer. The luxury …

the joy of choosing, of feasting my eyes on the names, estates and descriptions of these award-winning wines with the sommelier hovering at my elbow ready to offer advice, and the wine list itself so gorgeously thick and detailed that I could think of about five shorter novels I'd read. And since price was clearly not a consideration this evening, I didn't even have to worry about that.

While the sommelier was pouring a glass of Dom Perignon for each of us as an aperitif, we started chatting more easily.

Simon told me more about the firm that he'd started up and now co-owned with a black empowerment company. The firm, which he said specialised in commercial buildings and retail centres, was currently involved with a number of projects. The biggest one was the long-term upgrade, expansion and refurbishment of the Sandton shopping mall and business centre, and the other that was taking up most of his time at present was the construction of a brandnew shopping mall and commercial centre in Dubai.

‘So which of those do you enjoy more?' I asked him. He gave my question some real thought before replying.

‘Neither. They're both wonderful projects and I'm extremely proud to be handling them, but the one that means the most to me is a much smaller and far less lucrative one.'

‘What's that?' I asked, wondering for some reason if it was going to be building his house.

‘It's in one of the former black townships. The informal settlement of Orange Farm, south of Johannesburg. It's one of the poorest in the province, and also the most lacking in amenities.'

‘So what are you doing there?'

‘Well, our firm's already finished a paved raised walkway that goes up over the ridge, safe and well lit. Now, people on foot no longer have to go through the muddy and dangerous area to get to the southernmost taxi rank. Phase two, which starts next month, is building a shopping mall in the township as there's literally no formal retail activity there at the moment. It's something that is badly needed.'

‘That sounds great,' I said, impressed at how passionate he was about this. His eyes sparkled as he told me about it.

‘What makes this development different from any other that's been done before is that the community itself has ownership, sixteen per cent in fact, and will receive sixteen per cent of all the rental incomes to reinvest in the settlement as they choose. That will mean that the development is truly uplifting its surroundings, and its residents.'

‘That is impressive,' I said.

When the waiter had taken our orders and the wineglasses had been filled, this time with a crisp and aromatic local Sauvignon Blanc, the conversation changed tack and started getting a little more personal.

‘So, Emma,' he said, ‘I was surprised when you told me you've never socialised with clients outside of your work.'

‘I never have done. I have strict boundaries in place. It's safer for everyone concerned.'

‘I see,' he nodded. ‘But … if the boundaries are so strict, then what are you doing here with me?'

Even after hours of thought about this at home, I still didn't have a proper answer to this question, the one I knew he was going to ask me tonight.

‘You intrigue me.' I said.

‘Interesting you should say that. The feeling is mutual,' he responded in a low voice.

For me, it was more than that, but I certainly wasn't going to elaborate on the ridiculous effect his physical closeness had had; how easily his touch had stripped away my Mistress persona and turned me into this unfamiliar, lustful creature who was urgently in need of some discipline and restraint herself.

‘My rules still apply, though.' I hoped they would, at any rate.

‘Rules? Tonight?'

‘Of course. You'll find out what they are.'

‘I look forward to obeying them then. Or, perhaps, testing them.'

At that, I breathed in deeply, praying that on this important evening, I would be able to suppress my own desire, and maintain my authority over this capricious man for as long as it took to satisfy him.

‘On the subject of rules,' he continued, ‘when you are involved with a lover, are you always the dominant? Or are you, or have you been, a submissive at any stage?'

I stared at him in surprise. ‘Neither.'

Now it was his turn to look puzzled.

‘Neither? You mean …'

‘Plain vanilla, as the saying goes. Ordinary relationships.'

‘No.' Simon shook his head, bemused. ‘I can't believe that.'

‘It's true.'

‘But you're so good at what you do.'

‘Thank you. Complimenting the mistress is always a wise move.'

‘Seriously? Vanilla?'

‘The plainest sort. Not even Madagascan bourbon.'

He gave a rather baffled frown. ‘You
are
full of surprises. I've been thinking all along that you are just as incurably kinky as I am. And now you tell me you aren't.'

‘Not in my personal life, no.'

‘You've never been drawn towards the darker side?'

‘Not for a moment,' I answered firmly.

‘You know, when I invited you here tonight, I was looking forward to being corrupted by you. Now I'm worried that I'm going to end up doing the corrupting.'

‘You needn't fret about that,' I told him. ‘I do know the safe word, even if it takes me a few goes to get it right.'

He smiled, before giving me a sideways look. ‘Tell me the truth. With your oh-so-vanilla partners, don't things get boring for you?'

I had no idea what to say in response to that. I thought about the sex Mark and I had had. Good and frequent at first, then not so frequent but still good, then after the fights started in earnest, less good and less often.

Maybe kinky sex would have spiced up our love life, although I couldn't imagine Mark ever having agreed to it. He was far too conservative. To be honest, I didn't think that any amount of sex, good, great or mindblowingly fantastic, could have healed the underlying issues that had surfaced during our marriage.

‘There's more to a relationship than sex,' I said haughtily.

‘Of course there is.' His voice was intense and his gaze held mine as he spoke. ‘There are many more important things. There is love, and trust, and respect, and loyalty. Which, incidentally, I value very highly. If I were to start dating somebody else, I'd no longer visit you.'

Upon hearing that, I had to stop my mouth from falling open in shock.

That wasn't what I'd been expecting him to say at all. His words were a hammer blow to my chest. I was crushed by the hurt and humiliation I felt at being considered dispensable, even though I knew that it was best and safest that way.

‘Well, at least have the decency to let me know when that happens,' I snapped.

He looked surprised. ‘ok. I will.'

I was still stinging from the effect of the unavoidable reality of his statement.

‘Where do you meet your dominant girlfriends anyway?' I asked him, wanting to push on the pain I felt and to hear the worst.

‘Now, you can't go asking questions like that,' he warned, in a teasing tone that made me wonder whether he was involved in a local dom–sub dating scene that everyone except me knew about.

‘Actually,' he continued, ‘I married a dominant woman. My wife, Julie, was killed seven years ago in a light aircraft crash.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘I've had a few girlfriends since then, but Paula was the only one that looked like becoming serious, and I ended it with her late last year.'

That had been as a result of the betrayal of trust he'd told me about. I wanted to ask him more, but the pain I saw in his face told me it was a subject he would prefer not to discuss.

Unsure of what to say next, I sipped my wine and wondered again what a dominant relationship involved. The concept still mystified me and I could only guess at probable scenarios.

‘What would you like for supper, love?'

‘Nnngh … Gnnnngh … Hnnghhhk.'

‘Pardon? Want me to remove the ball gag? Was that a no? Well then, I think I'll leave you padlocked to the burglar bars and go out and get some takeaway. Chinese? Indian? Oh, never mind …'

‘Another question,' he said. ‘If you've never had submissive lovers, how did you learn to dominate?'

At that moment the waiter arrived with our starters. I'd ordered a scallop tartare accompanied by a sprinkling of caviar, chives and toast points. Simon had chosen the venison carpaccio with mushrooms, asparagus and parmesan.

I took a bite of scallop, savouring the complex flavours of the finely prepared dish, and decided the truth wouldn't hurt here. Confessions about my past could hardly have a negative bearing on the present situation. Even so, I couldn't help feeling nervous as I spoke the words, remembering the long-term damage they had caused the last time I'd told anybody about them.

‘When I was young and silly I spent a few years working on phone sex lines,' I admitted.

‘Really? Now that is fascinating. Will you give me a demonstration sometime?'

I took a deep breath. He wasn't put off – of course not. Why would anybody be who'd just admitted they were incurably kinky themselves?