by Lucy Appleby
She struggled up the hill, head down, shoulders hunched against the biting wind and icy rain that battered her face. Her hands were numb with cold for no sooner had she put them in her pockets, the wind tugged off her hood, forcing her to reach out with frozen fingers to secure it again. The rain pummelled her head, and the sopping wet strands of her hair blew wildly, obscuring her vision. Her feet began to ache. Water spurted and squelched out of the flimsy court shoes with each laborious step.
Not that she particularly cared. No job. No money. No husband. Nothing really mattered any more. Her spirits matched the grey November afternoon, paltry sunlight already fading, sinking behind the great wood. She passed a cottage or two, shuttered windows hiding the warmth and light within, giving a bleak and forbidding external appearance to passers by.
A dog shouldn't be out in this weather. She smiled grimly, and continued battling against the wind, neither knowing where she was bound, nor caring. The wind became stronger and began howling like a raging beast. Trees by the roadside creaked and bent in a mad dance, branches arching, contorting, snapping, screaming as they were whipped by the wind. She began to feel a sudden elation as the wind changed direction and blew her up the hill with huge force. She became a matchstick kite, fragile and insignificant, tugged and hurled at the mercy of the elements.
She laughed as the wind caught her and whirled her uphill. Up she stumbled, tumbled, bumbling along at a staggering pace. And all around her the world shrieked as the wind blew and the rain pounded. Up and up she went. Gasping, spluttering, blinking through water-logged eyes, water cascading down her cheeks, trickling down her neck, soaking her skin.
And then it quieted, hushed, stopped, leaving her panting, saturated, exhausted. She found herself clinging on to an old stone gatepost at the edge of a field by the road, embracing it as though it were a lover. She appeared to have lost a shoe and her coat was saturated, wrapping and blanketing her in its sodden folds. It felt comforting, inviting her to sleep in its chill grasp. Her eyes closed as she rested her frozen face against the pillar of wet blackened stone.
He saw her through the glare of his headlamps as he rounded the bend in the Land Rover; she was a moulded shape in the greyness, her contours melting into the stone, gradually being enveloped by the encroaching darkness. He stopped, approached her, concerned. She barely had the energy to look at him. No words passed her lips, just a sigh and a look of hopelessness and utter tiredness. He put her in the Land Rover and took her home to High Moor.
When she woke, it was to find herself wrapped in a snug robe and settled into the comfortable depths of a wing chair by the fire. The aroma of wood smoke did not disguise the tantalising cooking smells. She realised she was ravenously hungry. As though on cue, he entered the room carrying a tray. He set it down on a small table next to her chair. There was a big bowl of vegetable soup, a plate topped with hunks of crusty bread, and a small glass of wine. She looked up at him, shyly.
"Eat." His voice was reassuring, crisp and commanding, yet kindly.
She appraised him surreptitiously as she ate. He was much older than her, perhaps late 60s. Yet his height and agility, his silver hair and blue twinkly eyes gave him a distinguished appearance. Despite his years, he was a handsome man. There was something else about him. Something she could not quite place. But whatever it was, it both lulled and intrigued her. She felt safe.
Comforted by the hot food and warmth of the fire, she responded to his questions, slowly, hesitantly at first, then tumbling into an avalanche of outpouring. She told him everything. About her, about her failed marriage, the things that had gone wrong in her life, and her need to be ...
"Your need to be ..?" he questioned.
"I don't know what I need. But I'm sure I'll recognise it when it happens. If it happens."
He nodded, as though he understood. "You need a purpose in life. Something to motivate you. Something to make you come alive."
"Yes. Yes, you're absolutely right. Such a shame I don't know what it is," she smiled at him for the first time. It lit her face, transforming the ordinary into something quite extraordinary.
"You will know soon enough," he smiled in return. And again there was that something about him. A frisson. A sizzling spark of energy. It promised untold things. It began to permeate her psyche, probing at the vague and undefined thoughts that lurked there, waiting to be solidified and released.
He filled her glass and they talked until the case clock in the hall chimed midnight.
"I should go...," she began.
"Nonsense. You will stay here." He looked at her in a certain way that brooked no argument. It both irritated and excited her.
He offered her a live-in job as housekeeper. Her duties would be light housework, cooking, and helping out with his business interests by dealing with phone calls and correspondence. The salary was generous, particularly given the huge amount of free time she would have, and the free accommodation in his house.
He showed her round the place. It wasn't so much a house as a mansion. He showed her a suite of rooms which she would occupy. She was amazed and delighted.
"I can't believe this. Its too good to be true. There must be a catch."
"Well, I suppose you could be right there. There's always a catch." He smiled wolfishly, blue eyes clouding over like bruised slate.
"Oh," her voice was dejected, the disappointment apparent.
"Come," he took her hand and led her along the corridor.
She began to feel increasingly conscious of the towelling robe and her bare feet as she padded along beside him, her toes sinking into the thick pile of the luxurious carpet.
The study was very much his abode. A testosterone filled den, it was panelled on two walls in dark oak, a few carefully placed oil paintings relieving the sobriety with their radiant colours glittering like jewels. The remaining walls were thickly lined with an assortment of leather-bound books in glass-fronted cases. The huge fireplace dominated the large room, as did the big desk and corner cupboard by the window. Low tables held lamps and a selection of magazines and newspapers, and two burgundy leather sofas beckoned invitingly.
"The catch, my dear, is this. Every Wednesday afternoon at 2pm promptly you must report here to my study for your weekly appointment."
"Appointment?" she was puzzled.
"Your appointment will be of varying duration, dependant on your performance the previous week. It may last 20 minutes - or it may last a few hours. During that time, you will subject yourself to my will. You will be completely obedient and you will take whatever punishment is meted out to you."
"Punishment?!" Suddenly there was a schism in the metaphorical rose-coloured spectacles; the bubble was bursting. She was deflated. What was all this about punishment? "I don't understand what you mean." She looked at him, a frown on her face and abject disappointment in her eyes.
He gave her a quizzical glance and then went to the corner cupboard and opened it. "Come and look inside here."
She gasped at the array of equipment in there. There were many canes of varying thicknesses. There were leather straps, and an array of paddle-shaped implements. Wooden things lurked deep in the recesses, along with other strange shapes.
He was watching her intently, gauging her reaction, noting the look of shock and surprise and fear give way to something else. He caught the little spark of excitement that leapt from her green eyes, and he read meaning into the small twitch of her lips, her intake of breath and the heaving swell of her chest as she began to comprehend the use of these things. He closed the cupboard door. She continued to gaze past him as though she were trying to pry through the dense wood to examine the contents hidden inside.
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