Fire After Dark (13 page)

I have my supper – a simple pasta dish with artichokes, peppers and goat’s cheese that I picked up in a deli on the way home – give De Havilland some of the attention he wants, and then sit down on the sofa with a few of Celia’s fashion books on my lap and a glass of wine beside me. I don’t usually drink alone and it feels very grown up to sip the cold, flinty liquid while I turn the pages.

I manage to lose myself in the photographic history of Dior and the New Look and it’s some time before I look up again, but when I do, I gasp.

The flat opposite is lit, at last. The lamps on the side tables have been switched on, I can see them glowing. For the first time, though, I cannot see inside. The blinds are still up, but the diaphanous curtains, unnoticed when I was in the flat, have been pulled across the entire length of the window. The effect is to create a room of silhouettes, slightly distorted and oddly sized but still recognisable. I can make out the furniture, the table and chairs. Everything has a different character when seen this way: something quite ordinary can appear exotic and unusual. I see a strange shape, a low rectangle with thrusting upward spikes, like an animal lying on its back with spindly legs in the air, and it takes a moment before I remember that it is the low seat I noticed when I was there.

I get up and move quietly and slowly over to the window. I’m sure that I’ll be invisible to the flat opposite, and whoever is there certainly couldn’t hear me, but I’m careful just the same.

Two shapes come into the room. One is a woman and one a man, that much is obvious, but it’s impossible to know who, although the man must be Dominic. They are black shadows against the white veil of the curtains, walking about, sitting down, moving easily. There must be a window open somewhere, for the curtain shifts and moves as if in a breeze, which further distorts the shadows. It hangs still for a while, allowing me to get a fix on what I’m seeing, and then it wrinkles and billows, and I lose sight of them.

‘Goddamn it!’ I say under my breath. ‘Stay still!’

It’s unbearably tantalising, to know that Dominic is there with someone. Who is it? It must be Vanessa, that’s who it’s always been in the past. But the shadows are so undefined, I simply can’t make out whether it’s her or not. I know it’s a woman because I can see her outline and the shape of her dress, but everything else is vague. It’s very frustrating.

De Havilland has woken up and jumps up onto the windowsill beside me. He sits down, curls his tail around his feet, blinks and watches some pigeons fluttering about from the roof to the trees. Then he sticks out a paw and starts cleaning it. I wish I could be so serene and calm, but I’m glued to the action opposite, trying to make out what’s going on over there.

Am I jealous? Of course I am!

Nothing that’s happened between Dominic and me has gone further than a date, but even so I can’t help a feeling of raw possessiveness flood through me. Last night we had dinner and talked and he told me it was over with Vanessa. So why is there a woman in his apartment with him?

But . . . I never asked him whether he was seeing anyone else.

The thought hits me like a bucket of icy water, and I gasp. What an idiot I am to assume he must be single. When I virtually begged him to kiss at the end of the evening, lifting my face towards him, my lips parted hopefully, I’d thought the tension between us was sexual, but maybe it was just awkward embarrassment on his part, as he realised I have a massive crush on him.

Perhaps he’s telling her all about it right now.

‘Yes, she’s sweet enough but I think I’ve been a little unwise,’ he’s saying, as he pours his companion a glass of ice-cold champagne. ‘She obviously thought I was going to kiss her last night. I hardly knew what to do, so I gave her a peck on the cheek. I offered to take her out tomorrow – she’s a girl on her own, I thought she’d like someone to show her around. I was just being friendly, but I’m worried now that I’m leading her on.’

His girlfriend laughs as she takes the glass. ‘Oh Dominic, you’re too kind-hearted for your own good! You might have known that a naive little thing like that would fall in love as soon as look at you!’

He’s bashful. ‘Perhaps . . . ’

‘Oh, come on, darling. You’re rich, successful and handsome – she’s going to think you’re her Prince Charming if you so much as smile at her.’ She leans forward, her perfectly made-up lips in a knowing pout. ‘Put her out of her misery, darling. Tell her you’re very sorry, but tomorrow’s off.’

‘Maybe you’re right . . .’

I’m gasping at the vindictiveness of this mystery woman, boiling with anger and ready to go over and defend myself, when there is a change in what is happening behind the curtain. The breeze drops for a while and I can see more clearly. The people behind the curtain look different somehow, and I realise that the man – Dominic – is now naked, or wearing very little, at least. I can tell from his outline that his torso is bare. I can’t tell whether the woman is dressed or not, but if she is, she is wearing something very figure-hugging. Her silhouette is smooth but perfectly defined. The shapes are close together, examining something, as far as I can tell.

My anger at the imaginary conversation disappears. My heart is racing but now it’s with horrified apprehension.
He’s naked? But why?

Why would a man be naked with a woman? You don’t even need three guesses. One is going to do it.

Unless it’s massage . . .?
I think hopefully.
Yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s a massage.

Certainly their behaviour doesn’t seem to indicate they’re about to start making wild love to one another. They seem to be calmly discussing something. Then, abruptly, the atmosphere between the two figures changes. I sense it immediately. The man kneels down and bends his head before the woman. She towers over him, her hands on her hips and her nose haughtily in the air. She’s saying something. She begins to walk around him, circling him, but he doesn’t move. This goes on for some minutes. My breathing is shallow and I stay stock still as I watch them, wondering what the hell they’re doing, and what’s going to happen next.

I don’t have to wait too long. The woman goes over to the curious seat and sits down on it. The man goes onto his hands and knees and crawls over to her, whereupon she speaks to him, her attitude stern and unbending. He’s at her feet. She puts out a foot and he obediently leans forwards and seems to touch his mouth to it. Then she picks something up from the side table. She holds it out to him. It’s the shape of a hand mirror, with a long handle and an oval top. He leans forward again and does the same thing, putting his lips to whatever it is.

Is he kissing it?

I can’t even frame my thoughts. All I can do is watch.

The next moment he has dropped at her feet again but now he has clasped her legs and appears to be crawling up her. He lays himself out across her lap, so that his back is across her thighs, his shoulders, neck and head drop down on one side of her, and his bottom is exposed to her right hand.

She takes up the implement and, in a soft, almost gentle movement, she brings it down. He stays completely still. A moment later, she repeats the action, bringing the implement down with a sure, steady movement. She does it several more times.

Okay, I’m not imagining this. She’s spanking him. She’s spanking him with a hairbrush or something.

My mouth has gone dry, my thoughts are whirling. From this distance, I can’t make out everything that is happening, especially when the breeze makes the curtains flutter and obscure my view, but it is still the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. From my perspective it seems ridiculous: a grown man, bending his great body over a woman’s knees and allowing her to smack him over and over again. I’ve heard vaguely of such practices but they’re the stuff of jokes, aren’t they? Or enjoyed by whimpering upper-class inadequates who’ve never gotten over being punished by Nanny or caned by the science master. But that sort of thing doesn’t happen any more. And not to men like Dominic – rich, handsome, powerful . . .

I’m confused, suddenly almost tearful. What’s he doing over there? The spanking is moving up a notch, I can tell that. The woman is developing a rhythm and her strokes are growing in force. I can almost hear the steady thwack as she brings her paddle down. It must hurt and hurt horribly. How can anyone stand it voluntarily? What kind of person wants
that
, for goodness’ sake?

Things change again, quite suddenly. The man is pushed off her knee, and she opens her legs. He kneels between them, so that this time he is leaning over her left knee, with his feet tucked behind her right leg. She is picking up a fresh implement, a larger, flatter one. Now she starts her work again, bringing the paddle down hard on the cheeks of his bottom. Each time it hits, it looks like a castanet and I realise there are two flat heads slapping together when they land. They must cause an incredibly painful, stinging sensation as he absorbs each blow, but still he doesn’t move, lying prone and accepting the punishment. He seems to be clutching her left thigh in absolute surrender to what she’s doing. For at least twenty minutes she hits him with a regular, almost clocklike rhythm; I can hear the blows in my mind as she raises and beats, raises and beats.

Then it changes again; he rolls to the floor and lies there, while she gets up and walks around. She must be stiff, I expect, from his weight leaning on her. She is speaking again. The man raises himself up onto the seat and lies down on his stomach, one leg on either side. He lifts his arms and puts them on the two strange spiky rests I noticed when I first saw it. So that’s what they’re for. That’s why there are two on the same side of the chair.

The woman stalks over to him, picks up some scraps of cloth from the side table – scarves? – and swiftly binds his wrists to the armrests. Then, from the table, she picks up another tool. This time it is a long strap, like a belt except that I cannot see a buckle on it. She swishes it through the air a few times, no doubt creating a whistling sound for the added torment of her victim. I know what’s coming next and I can hardly bear to watch it, but somehow I can’t stop myself. The length of the leather flicks upwards and then comes down hard on the exposed buttocks of the man on the stool. Once, twice, three times, and on she goes, whipping with a steady hand. I can only imagine what the bite of that leather into the skin must feel like – and when that skin has already been tortured with other instruments, it must be close to unbearable. Surely he must be near to passing out, or going mad with agony.

Should I call the police?
The thought flashes into my mind and I look over at the telephone. What would I say?
Emergency, a woman is beating a man in the apartment opposite mine, you must stop her!
But he clearly wants it. Is it illegal to beat the shit out of someone if they want you to?

Something tells me calling the police would be the wrong move. It’s obvious the man could stop this at any time if he wanted – at least, he could have before his hands were tied. He is consenting.

I close my eyes, aghast.
Dominic – is this what you want?
I remember that he went to boarding school. Maybe, when he was boy, he was beaten by someone and it started this incomprehensible desire in him. It’s not much of a theory, but it’s all I’ve got.

When I open my eyes, the breeze has sprung up and the sheer curtains are moving so much that the figures behind it become an indiscernible blur.

I’m grateful for it. I don’t want to watch any more. I’ve seen enough.

I have no idea how I’m going to face Dominic tomorrow, after what I’ve witnessed.

THE SECOND WEEK

Chapter Eight

The next morning, I’m ready for Dominic when he knocks at the door at midday. The sun is bright in the sky overhead and it’s another hot summer’s day. I can’t remember when it last rained, and the radio news this morning talked of possible drought precautions if the dry spell continues much longer

Worrying about the weather is the last thing on my mind as I open the door to him. He looks fresh in a white linen shirt, light-brown shorts and a pair of white sandshoes. His eyes are hidden behind his black Ray-Bans, but he smiles broadly when he sees me.

‘Oh, wow, you look gorgeous.’

I do a little twirl. ‘Thank you. I hope it’s all right for whatever we’re doing today.’

‘It’s just right. Now, let’s get going. I have a packed schedule for us.’

He seems in a good mood as we take the lift down to the ground floor but as I see the reflection of his back in the mirror, I can’t help wondering what lies beneath that clean, cool linen shirt. Are the marks of the belt across his back? And his buttocks – are they bruised and sore from the hard punishment he got last night?

Don’t think like that,
I tell myself sternly.
You don’t know that it was him.

Then who was it?
says a voice in my head.
It’s his apartment, for goodness’ sake. Of course it was him.

I’ve been fretting over it all night, wondering what it could mean. What I didn’t see was any sex. The man and woman appeared not to be involved in that kind of relationship at all. It seemed to be all about the giving and receiving of a severe beating, and that in itself was baffling me. In the night, as I lay thinking about it, I’d decided that the best thing to do was put it out of my mind and enjoy the day with Dominic. If the opportunity arose when broaching this kind of subject with him wasn’t out of place or embarrassing – well, things would certainly have changed between us.

In fact, the minute we are together, the whole shadow play that I witnessed last night becomes dreamlike and unreal. I can almost believe that I imagined it. The faceless man straddled over the stool with his wrists bound has nothing to do with the warm, handsome flesh-and-blood person standing next to me, his nearness making my skin prickle with excitement. A gorgeous summer’s day spent with Dominic. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.