Jasmine swallows, and then turns the key in the lock. It clicks loudly, and I stiffen, listening. But there’s no sound from inside.
Dominic is still out of it. And no surprise, the way he hammered away at me. And standing, too. No wonder they call it a knee-trembler. He must need a full day’s sleep after that workout.
‘Now,’ I say softly, ‘back up. Into the bedroom.’
Again, she obeys me, but awkwardly, stumbling into the door frame, watching me the whole time.
Inside the bedroom, I knee the door shut, then look into her eyes.
‘I can hurt you if I need to,’ I say, and mean it. ‘Hurt you badly, and not think twice about it. Nod if you understand me.’
She nods, her eyes wide.
‘I’m going to let go of you. But if you make a sound, if you try anything, you’re going to need surgery. I hope I’m making myself clear?’
Again, she nods.
Slowly, watching for any sudden movements, I release her. Jasmine backs against the wall, watching me, not even attempting to escape.
Scared shitless, in other words.
I smile.
‘Now, turn around. Hands behind your back.’ She starts to say something, but I hold my finger up to my lips. ‘Hush.’
She turns around, trembling, instantly obedient.
I rummage through my bottom drawer for a long scarf. The thin black one I wear to work is perfect. I tie her wrists together, tight enough to be a little uncomfortable. Then I spin her around so she almost falls, and catch her, grinning at her horrified expression.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Where are good old Mum and Dad? Still in bed?’
‘I don’t know.’ She hesitates. ‘Probably.’
‘What time did they go to bed?’
‘Three o’clock? Later? I’m sorry, I don’t know. They were talking for ages.’ She’s babbling, getting hysterical. ‘What are you going to do?’ Her gaze flashes down to my nudity, then back to my face. ‘You know you . . . you don’t have any clothes on, don’t you?’
‘What?’
I look down at myself, pretending to be shocked. Then laugh, and remove a thick, fabric scarf from the bottom drawer.
‘Open wide,’ I tell her.
‘Sorry?’
‘Time you were gagged.’ I laugh again, nudging her. ‘Like last night, remember? Your Scrabble word. GAGGED.’
But she just stares at me, not laughing, her mouth slightly open. So I wind the thick scarf twice about her head, making sure her mouth is covered, and knot it at the back. I test it for wriggle room, but it’s secure. I could silence her more effectively, I suppose. But I don’t want to make a mess. Not in my own bedroom.
Besides, by the time she’s managed to raise the alarm and free Dominic, I’ll be long gone. With any luck.
‘Sit,’ I tell her, like she’s a dog.
She backs slowly onto the desk chair. I use more scarfs and a couple of Dominic’s leather belts to make sure she can’t escape. Not without taking the whole damn chair with her. I smile, imagining her attempting the stairs, still strapped to a chair.
‘Now listen, Jasmine, no doing anything stupid and breaking your neck,’ I tell her sternly, checking the bonds. ‘Okay? Promise? They’ll only blame it on me if you get killed, and then I’ll be really cross. I’m sure that’s something you want to avoid.’
She says nothing.
I straighten and check myself in the mirror. God, I look wild. Hair in a mess, bruises on my arms and legs, my face flushed with excitement.
And naked.
‘You’re right,’ I say, grinning, and open the wardrobe. ‘I need clothes. Can’t go around like this all day. I’ll get arrested.’
I begin to dress, then stop suddenly, frowning over the mushroom-coloured skirt I’ve automatically selected from the range hanging in the wardrobe.
‘God, what in the name of holy shit is this?’ I toss it aside and flick through the rest of the skirts hanging up. ‘Dull, dull, dull. Too long, too brown, too . . . grim. And what is this frilly thing? It looks like she wears it to church.’ I shake my head, swinging round to glare at Jasmine. ‘Doesn’t Cat have any clothes that aren’t boring as shit?’
Chapter Forty-Eight
Sharon comes out of her office as I saunter into the food bank and drop my shopping bags next to my workstation. Cat’s workstation, that is. But mine today. Since she’s not here to object.
‘Catherine? I didn’t think you were coming in today,’ Sharon says, staring at me like she’s never seen me before. ‘Your husband rang to say you were in hospital. That you were really sick.’
‘They let me out,’ I tell her. ‘For good behaviour.’
‘Well, that’s good news,’ she says uncertainly. ‘But you’re not down to work today, Catherine. Not on the time sheet. You’ll have to go home again.’
I look around. The place seems empty. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘It’s still Christmas holidays. We’re only open two hours today, for emergency relief.’ She’s frowning. ‘I was just about to close up, actually.’
I study Sharon thoughtfully. What an odd-looking woman she is. Like overcooked mutton. Still, no doubt some men find that look attractive. The scarlet lipstick, tan tights with everything, hair-in-a-beehive look.
‘Sorry, but what on earth are you wearing?’ Sharon looks me up and down, her mouth slightly open, a little dusting of black mascara splodges under each eye. ‘You look like a . . . a . . .’
‘Tart?’
Her eyes widen. ‘I was going to say “entertainer”.’
‘My God, what kind of parties do you go to?’
I glance down at the little black PVC skirt I found at the back of a drawer, coupled with a black leotard, plus fuck-me heels and a thigh-length black leather coat. A bit retro, perhaps. A bit Jane Fonda with her knees behind her ears. But definitely a reflection of how I feel today.
‘Don’t you like it?’ I say. ‘It needs a belt, of course, you’re right. Something thin and silver. But it was the best I could do at short notice. Don’t worry though, I’ve been shopping.’ I wink at Petra, who has appeared from a side aisle followed by a grubby-looking couple. Petra also stares at me with a shocked expression. ‘No more mushroom-coloured outfits, I promise. And all that beige.’ I shudder. ‘Why did nobody stop me?’
Sharon appears to be speechless. At least, she doesn’t say a word in response, merely gapes at me.
The black leotard is a little tight, I admit. My boobs keep escaping from it. I must have grown since I last wore it. Or rather, Cat did. The cab driver who brought me here from Harvey Nicks could barely contain his lust, staring at me in the mirror the whole way. That was where I bought the leather coat, ditching that horrid woollen thing I found in the hall. I bought a few other bits and pieces, deeply unsuitable designer dresses and skirts and see-through tops, all wildly expensive and guaranteed to annoy my aged parents.
Before hitting the shops, I dropped into The Ritz for a delicious breakfast. Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, Cumberland sausages and caviar. And a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne. With Dom in the name, I had to order it, didn’t I? It would have been greedy to drink the whole bottle on my own, especially at breakfast, but I did my best. The waiters didn’t bat an eye, nor did they complain when I knocked over the ice bucket on my way to the powder room.
Such darlings, and so gorgeously fit, I could have paid them all in blow jobs and not thought twice about it.
But I had the day job to think about instead. Couldn’t be late for that. Moral conscience and all. So I charged it all to dear Dad’s debit card instead, since he’d rather foolishly left his wallet on the desk in his study last night. And we all know his PIN, because whenever he runs out of brandy he sends me or Mum to the off-licence with his card. I like to think he did it deliberately. Because he’s as sick of Catherine and her beige wardrobe and sensible flatties as I am.