‘You were the chivvier-in-chief.’
‘Yes. I like a bit of chivvying, actually. Especially when it involves the striking of female bottoms. But you knew that.’
‘I think I did, Robert, yes. So Ruthie goes to the States and leaves you all on your lonesome. That must have been a wrench. You didn’t think of coming to my club for a bit of solace?’
‘I didn’t know about your club. I made a profile for one of those kinky dating sites. Met up with a few girls, had a bit of fun but no real connection, until Lucy. And now you see me here, all up to date and ready to play.’
‘Baptism of fire,’ said Allyson. ‘You and Richard seem to get along all right.’
Richard looked up from his phone, on which he seemed to be surfing the internet.
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ he said. ‘Like-minded souls and all that.’
‘Sorry, Richard, are we boring you?’ Allyson looked pointedly at the phone.
He had the good grace to look embarrassed as he put it away.
‘Broadband speed’s awful here, anyway,’ he muttered.
‘What about you, Rich?’ she asked, leaning forward. ‘I mean, I know you quite well, but I bet Blake and Rob don’t know how you got into all this. Care to give us a bedtime story?’
‘You’d probably tell it better than I would,’ said Richard modestly, trying to deflect attention by going to the kitchen for another bottle of wine.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Allyson, once he was back in the room. ‘I don’t think so at all.’
‘I’d be very interested to hear it,’ said Blake, and Rob nodded agreement.
Richard yawned and looked at the stairs for a moment, but he knew there was no escape.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘It was like this.’
One Hot Summer
It was getting on for ten years ago now.
I was heading for forty, my marriage had just ended because of the hours I was working, and those same hours meant I wasn’t meeting anyone new, unless they worked at the bank. And the women at the bank work just as hard as I do, so …
Anyway. I had a holiday coming up and I took the full two weeks. Couldn’t wait to get out of London, to be honest. In August it’s like a sealed vacuum flask full of exhaust fumes and dust, as I’m sure you all well know.
I’d had an invitation from my cousin to spend some time at his country house. Not a giant Downton Abbey kind of place but a modest, Georgian, six-bedroomed former vicarage with a bit of land attached, in a nice village in Dorset. It sounded like just the literal breath of fresh air I needed.
Mind you, if I was serious about needing fresh air, I was going to have to stay away from Peregrine. He’s a chain-smoker. He’d promised he’d only light up in the garden, though, so I wasn’t too worried.
Got there, Saturday afternoon, glorious day it was, only to find he’d invited other company. It didn’t put me out, really, but I could have done with a bit of warning. There they all were on the lawn out the front, drinking already: they’d been to the pub for lunch and were carrying on. Peregrine always lived that kind of lifestyle. He’s a theatre critic, I think you’d all have heard of him, so it’s Press Nights, First Nights, Last Nights, champagne nights all the way. Knows tons of famous actors, moves in bohemian circles. Not like me. I know there’s a fair amount of drug abuse and high living in banking, but I’ve always steered clear. Seen too many good people get lost in a blizzard of coke. My half of the family are down-to-earth Yorkshire people and I’ve inherited their thrift and their sound good sense. Peregrine’s side, not so much.
But I ought to get back to what was going on that Saturday afternoon in a sleepy Dorset village. Peregrine had invited a theatre director and his boyfriend, a journalist from his paper and a strange woman with a massive peroxide hair-do. He introduced her as a London dominatrix, and I must admit, I was impressed. She looked every inch the part, even if she was wearing a linen trouser suit and not a PVC all-in-one. It wasn’t just her appearance that interested me either. In my lonely months since the divorce, I’d spent a fair bit of free time looking at BDSM porn on the web. I had a feeling I might have seen her in something. I didn’t mention it though.
I grabbed myself a drink, and sat down with them, and joined in the chat. It all seemed like an ordinary sort of afternoon summer party at first but, after a while, I started to notice things, little things that were just slightly off-key.
The theatre director snogged his boyfriend at one point, and when he did, he held his neck really tightly, so tightly I felt a bit uncomfortable for him. But he didn’t complain. The journalist, when he spoke to the domme – her name was Sofia, I think you know her, Al – had this weird manner about him, overly deferential, and he was all sweaty and bug-eyed, as if he was getting off on it. Especially when she was downright rude to him.
At one point, she put down her drink and told him to go inside and wait for her. He trotted off like a schoolboy who’s just been given five quid for sweets.
Peregrine was presiding over all this like a lord. Once the domme had gone inside, and the theatre director and boyfriend were rolling under the
hedge, I asked him who the hell these people were.
‘I’ve been thinking for a while, Richard, that you need to make some new friends,’ he said, sparking one up again, off the end of the last one. ‘I thought you’d like to join the party.’