‘Muse. What’s that?’
‘From ancient Greece. An inspiration to the literature and arts.’
‘Me?’ She laughed gently, not knowing where to look.
‘Yes, you,’ he said, stroking the soft skin underneath her jaw.
He looked at her, his gaze probing deeply into hers, and she didn’t know whether the headiness she felt was the martini and wine or something more carnal.
‘Take off your blouse.’
At first she wasn’t sure if she had heard him correctly.
‘I want to see you. I want to be inspired by you.’
Her throat tightened and her heart started hammering.
‘My muse,’ he whispered as she closed her eyes and felt him undoing her buttons.
She felt the fabric slip off her shoulders and cool air blow against her skin. His fingertips stroked the length of her arm.
‘You’re so beautiful. I want to write about you. I want to fix you forever in history.’
She stood there, her eyes still closed, as he asked her to turn around. He unclipped her bra and it fell to the floor.
‘What do you feel?’ he asked, his lips so close to her ear.
She shivered and felt her nipples harden. She blushed furiously and was glad that he was standing behind her. She heard him take a step towards her. She could feel the cotton of his shirt against her bare back.
‘I’m going to make you a woman,’ he said softly, the metal zip of her skirt offering no resistance to his fingers.
Her breath started quickening and she felt a sensation, an excitement between her legs.
‘No,’ she said, spinning round and clutching at her waist to hold up her skirt.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said more forcefully, scooping up her bra and blouse from the floor and putting them back on. Her cheeks were burning and she was too ashamed to look at him.
‘This isn’t what you think,’ said Ian quickly.
‘What is it then?’ she asked, tears burning behind her eyeballs.
‘You’ve got the wrong idea,’ he spluttered back. ‘I need inspiration for my new book. The lead character is a young woman. About your age. Innocent, beautiful, just like you. She is seduced by an older man, a wealthy white landowner in Rhodesia. You are my inspiration. My research.’
‘Is that so?’ she replied, taking deep breaths to force the air back into her lungs. She grabbed her bag and her manuscript and made for the door.
‘Don’t tell your uncle.’
‘I’m sure he’d understand if it was just inspiration.’
She clattered down the stairs and ran out on to the street, tears of shame streaming down her cheeks as she leapt on to the number 22 bus.
It was almost midnight by the time she got home. Even from the road she could see the light on in the living room of their flat and knew that Estella had been waiting up for her. She wiped her face and rubbed her cheeks, hoping there was no telltale redness around her eyes.
She went inside and found Estella in her best dress holding a glass of champagne.
‘My darling, you shall go to the ball,’ she said, smiling and swaying gently on her heels.