I had stopped listening. The bag was open. Pandora’s Bag.
Spilling from the worn brown leather were paddles, straps, whippy things with many strings, hairbrushes, riding crops, the full de Sade works. Only the cane was absent, presumably because of its impractical length.
He snapped the bag shut again and my mouth followed suit.
‘Shall we begin?’
I nodded. Maz came around to stand beside Justin, her sweet, open face suddenly grave.
I actually gulped, like somebody out of a Fifties comic strip, but Justin had the air of suppressed authoritative menace down to a fine art.
‘So, Miss Delray,’ he intoned, folding his arms. ‘You may not have realised, but I have an ulterior motive in coming here tonight. I’ve been checking the petty cash supply.’ He paused, eyebrow raised, waiting for me to fall into the big hole he was digging for me.
I think I probably paled. It all seemed so real. Ersatz, but no less effective, guilt crept into my consciousness, knocking all the confidence out of me.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Oh? Is that all you can say? I’m finding it a little short. Actually, more than a little. Short to the tune of 57 pounds and 33 pence. How do you account for this?’
‘I’m not an accountant,’ I pleaded.
He sneered.
‘So you’re saying it’s a mistake? A question of poor arithmetical training?’
‘Uh, probably.’
‘But I know there was more than a hundred pounds in there three days ago, Miss Delray. So I’m not entirely sure you’re being honest with me.’
Oh. So I was dishonest rather than incompetent. In that case, I needed to come up with some bluster.
‘It, hang on, I think, um, yeah, the fan broke so I had to buy another! That’s right! I remember now.’
‘You had the fan on in mid-November?’
‘I, um, just felt a bit hot, you know?’
‘No. I don’t think I do. Why am I paying for central heating in your office if you’re turning on the fan? This gets worse by the minute. You incriminate yourself every time you open your mouth. If I were you, Miss Delray, I’d stop digging.’
I put down my metaphorical spade and dropped my eyes to the floor. Something bad was coming. Something good-bad-good. My pulse raced and a wave of nausea rocked through my body.
‘I’m still waiting,’ he said stridently, ‘for a word of apology. Even if you can’t be honest with me.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I whispered.
‘You will be. Now, you are going to serve us our dinner and, while we eat, I am going to consider the thorny problem of how to deal with you.’
‘Shit! The veg is boiling over!’ I exclaimed, racing to the kitchen.
Maybe not the best end to that particular scene, but it was true.
While I dished up, I let my heart rate return to normal, retrospectively admiring Justin’s diabolical knack for this kind of thing. I had lost my appetite and didn’t want to think about digesting the French peasant-style chicken thing I was ladling on to the plates. Considering I had been ravenous since the rehearsal, this was quite an achievement.
What was he going to do to me? Did we have to stay in role throughout the meal? How was I going to?
‘Smells gorgeous.’
Maz had crept up behind me, smiling in a very non-irate-boss’s-wife way.