‘I don’t mean that.’
‘You’d better not.’
‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘No, Sarah, it isn’t. Him, on the other hand …’
‘You have nothing to worry about.’
‘I just don’t want another lovelorn rival on my hands. Not after the last time.’
I saw his point. That hideous tangle with his former groundsman was best forgotten.
‘I think you’re safe,’ I said. ‘Rob’s harmless. Oh, this shirt … I love the sleeves.’ I held up a capacious lawn cotton number and Jasper took off his hoody and slipped it on.
‘I feel like Lord Byron,’ he remarked, lacing it tight.
I handed him a cravat, a plain blue one with little gold trefoils, not wanting to overegg things since the waistcoat was so gaudy.
‘It seems pointless to dress up like this when what I’m planning involves getting it all off again,’ he commented. ‘Still, every scene needs a bit of build-up.’
‘I don’t think we should …’ I opened, a little tentative.
‘Should what?’
‘I mean, the furniture is all authentic. Including the beds. I’d rather not …’
‘You’re afraid I’ll damage them?’
‘I have to work here,’ I said, biting my lip.
‘Nothing is going to get broken,’ he said. The waistcoat was on now and he looked good. Wicked good. The jeans didn’t really go so well, but from the waist up he was the perfect Victorian gent. All he needed was extravagant facial hair.
He dug into the ottoman and drew out a pair of tight riding breeches. He noticed my salacious eyeing of them and said, ‘You’re still dressed. Why is that?’
‘Oh. I …’
‘Is there a corset in there?’ He peered into the depths.
‘I told you. We don’t wear real corsets.’
‘Well, that must be remedied. I’ll take you up to town on your day off. I know a woman who makes the most amazing pieces. Expensive, but you’re worth it. In the meantime, a chemise and some drawers will do.’
I unbuttoned my jeans, glad to have an occupation for my restless fingers.
‘What’s this film all about then?’ I asked. Surely it couldn’t be a porn flick? Perhaps it was.
‘Sex,’ he said, grinning and strutting around in his riding breeches. ‘My God, I should wear these more often,’ he said, slapping his thighs. ‘I feel like a panto principal boy. Where are the matching boots? And, most importantly, the riding crop?’
‘Is there a riding crop in the film?’ I asked, my mouth now dry and the words sounding small and fearful.
‘Whatever I want to be in the film will be in the film,’ he said, posing in front of the chimney-piece mirror. ‘So, yes, I’d say a riding crop was a given.’
He turned to smirk at me.
I was wearing my bra and a pair of linen knee-length drawers, the type with a flap at the rear that could be opened to reveal the buttocks.
‘But what’s the script about?’ I persisted, wishing Jasper would, for once, give a simple answer to a simple question.