‘Joss, you live in one of the most fertile arable areas in the world. And you have no veg in your larder.’
‘I’ve never had to think about that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘We had a cook until father died. And after that my only vegetable intake was fermented and distilled potato.’
‘Vodka,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Yes. Go on then. Bung it in the microwave. I’ll lay the table.’
‘Lucky table,’ he said, doing as advised.
The cottage pie was tasty, if a bit lacking in runner beans on the side. As I forked it up, Joss said, ‘I emailed Mal today.’
‘Who’s Mal?’
‘The owner of that club I was telling you about. He says there’s a Masquerade Ball next Friday.’
‘Next Friday?’ The mashed potato turned to thick wadding in my mouth.
‘Short notice, I know, but the perfect opportunity to get a bit of experience of public play under your belt.’
‘Under your belt, more likely.’
He liked that. ‘Yes,’ he said with a devilish smile. ‘Quite. So, how about it?’
‘What if I have to work? I don’t know when a story’s going to come up or how it’s going to play out.’
‘It’s just one night, Lulu. If Jack the Ripper comes to Tylney, we can reschedule, but I don’t think that’s on the cards, do you?’
‘You never know. OK, I have nothing to wear to a BDSM Masquerade.’
‘That’s easily fixed.’
‘What are you going to wear?’ I was curious. ‘You’d look good in leather.’
‘Actually I do have some leather trousers somewhere. They haven’t fitted me in years though.’
‘Try them on again. They might now. You’ve lost a bit of weight since you stopped drinking.’
‘I will. And we’ll need masks, of course. I’ve got several – you’ll have to order one. There’s a great website I know of.’
‘I want feathers.’
‘Then feathers you shall have. I can see you in a jewelled harness with sequinned nipple pasties and a ponytail butt plug.’
‘No chance, sunshine. I’m covering myself.’
‘Spoilsport. Never mind. There are a thousand ways of dressing that make you look more naked than if your flesh is bare. We’ll come up with one that suits you.’
‘I don’t know about that. I hate wearing a bikini at the beach.’
‘I can’t think why. You’re gorgeous. I can’t look at you without wanting to get my hands all over you.’
The cottage pie was going cold. Clearly we both had other appetites at the forefront of our mind.
‘So,’ I
said, my voice coming out all husky. ‘Tell me about these balls. What happens at them?’
‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise,’ he said. ‘But at the last one I bought a slave for the night at an auction. I already knew her,’ he added hastily, seeing my wrinkled nose. ‘She was a friend’s submissive. And when I say I bought her, the money went to charity, and obviously she was fine with everything. It was her idea, in fact.’
‘All right, all right, you can lay off the case for the defence. Just the word “slave” made me wince a bit. It’s not often heard in a positive context, is it?’