His House of Submission (House of Submission 1)

‘How do I know you didn’t make a copy?’

‘Me?’

‘How do I know you and him weren’t co-conspirators from the start? You planned this. You let him into the house. You were fucking him all along.’

‘Jesus, Jasper! No! You’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick!’

‘It all makes sense,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘You found my stuff, you decided to make some money out of me. You gave him the tape. And now you’re playing at saving the day, so I don’t get my lawyers after you.’

‘This is paranoia! Please stop it, Jasper. I had to fight him for this tape. I only did it because I love you.’

I held out my arms, covered now in fingermark bruising from my struggle with Will.

‘Look!’

He looked, then turned his face away.

‘Rough sex,’ he muttered.

‘No! Oh, God, he’d be loving this. This is what he wanted – to break us up and drive you mad.’

He had nothing to say to that.

‘You’ll see when the papers come out tomorrow,’ I persisted. ‘There’ll be nothing. No scandal, no sex tape. Will said himself he wouldn’t do that to Ava.’

‘What a gent,’ sneered Jasper, but a dim light seemed to be dawning.

‘And I would never do anything to hurt you,’ I said, more quietly, trying to turn every cell of my body into sincerity that

would force its way from my words to his heart. ‘Because I love you.’

‘So you said.’ He drained the rest of the brandy. ‘But love’s a tricky bugger, isn’t it? I’ve seen it faked too many times. Sometimes for the camera. Sometimes not.’

‘Oh, Jasper.’ A flicker of real pain in his eyes made me move towards him.

He flinched.

‘Don’t. I know the lines by heart. All of them.’

‘But they aren’t always just lines. Somebody must have said they loved you and meant it. Surely.’

‘I thought they did, once. I was wrong. I don’t want to talk about love. I don’t want to go through the disappointment again.’

‘Somebody broke your heart.’

‘If you want to put it that way, trite and unoriginal as it is.’

‘Was it Ava?’

He slumped in his chair, then picked up the empty glass.

‘I need more of this,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here. In fact, let’s build a bonfire and put this on top.’

He wrenched the tape from the camera and set off, glass in hand, towards the drawing room that held the brandy decanter.

Fortified with more firewater, we wandered outside, by the stables, and Jasper began building a pyre, composed of discarded brushwood and early fallen leaves.

‘You know,’ he said, raking more twigs towards the pile, ‘perhaps I should add my whole collection to this. All those whips and cuffs and Victorian butt plugs.’