“Where’s your uncle now?” asked Karl-Heinz, peering towards the doors as if he expected a man in a toga to march through at any moment.
“Oh, he’s in LA,” said Hackmeyer carelessly. “For at least a year, I think. I timed this thing pretty well. The Lanesborough was starting to bore me.”
“Oh God, I had afternoon tea in the Lanesborough once, it was to die for,” exclaimed Lydia in a burst of enthusiasm, but she fell silent when she noticed the indulgent ‘isn’t she sweet and naïve’ look directed at her by the other three.
“I think dinner is ready,” said Hackmeyer, breaking an awkward silence. “Shall we go through to the dining room?”
The dining room was huger and more magnificent than the reception room. Everything seemed to shimmer and glimmer and even the diners looked wealthier and more beautiful in the golden light.
The brief-skirted maid was back to serve and take plates, while the man in the harness acted as sommelier, pouring the wine and taking orders for water or other drinks.
Initially, Lydia hung back outside the conversation, which Karl-Heinz and Hackmeyer dominated, talking of their respective days at work.
“And you, Lydia?” asked Hackmeyer, pausing after an account of the speech he had made to his new students. “I’m sorry, we are not letting you get a word in…is it edgewise?”
“Edgeways,” she said. She waited until both of the servants were out of earshot and whispered, “Do they always work here?”
Hackmeyer laughed.
“No, I hired them in for the evening.”
“What kind of agency…?”
“No, no. We are friends. On the scene. They enjoy serving.” He laughed again and rolled his eyes at Karl-Heinz and Sarah. Lydia felt very young and very stupid and resolved to shut her mouth until the subject of his terrible treatment of Milan could be brought up.
Sarah was being unusually quiet, she noticed. Had she taken a vow?
“What do you think of our new Leader?” she asked her, curious to get the harpist’s opinion of Vanessa’s vile ex.
“If Herr von Ritter is happy with him, then I bow to his professional expertise,” she said.
She sounded nothing like the outspoken bitch she’d scrapped with outside the Royal Albert Hall. What on Earth had come over her? Was it to do with this total power exchange thing?
“Well said, slut,” said Hackmeyer approvingly and Lydia gasped.
Didn’t she mind being spoken to like that?
“You look shocked, Lydia,” he said, smiling.
“I…it’s…” There seemed no polite way of putting it. “Isn’t that a bit harsh? Calling her a slut?”
“Why?” asked Hackmeyer, tearing off a wedge of goats’ cheese focaccia with his teeth and chewing it down. “She is a slut. Why not call her one?”
“But…don’t you mind?” Lydia addressed Sarah.
“My master is right. I am a slut. I’ve been had by everyone who comes into the house. He’s right to call me by my rightful name.”
“We looked into the possibility, didn’t we, of changing it by deed poll. So she could be Slut Whore Latimer.”
“Oh, you didn’t!”
“Well, okay, we knew it wouldn’t probably be allowed. But we went to the Register Office to ask.”
“You never did! What on Earth did the registrar say?”
“It was deliciously embarrassing for Slut, wasn’t it?”
Sarah, flushed to her peroxide roots, licked her lips, speechless at the memory.