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  ‘Yes, I know that. Look.’ It’s time to opt for an easier route. ‘Just don’t talk to Sebastian.’

  ‘Don’t see why I would.’ She purses her lips. ‘But why all the cloak and dagger stuff?’

  I’m not exactly comfortable revealing the next little nugget of information. But needs must.

  ‘Because I’ve gone and given Max a piece of my mind.’

  ‘What? No...’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ella, for God’s sake.’ She nods at the wine glass. ‘You’ve got to stop this.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Knocking back the vino and raging at the world.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

  ‘Get some counselling,’ she begs, not for the first time.

  ‘Fuck counselling. I’m fine.’

  ‘Right. That’s why you just mouthed off at your boss.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now. So keep schtum. Because if he finds out who I am...I’m for the chop.’

  Chapter Three

  Deciding there’s no more mileage in trying to make sense of the manuscript, I stuff the iPad back into my holdall and return inside to find the bar almost empty. Apart from a couple eating a meal, there’s not a soul in sight. But I don’t particularly fancy whiling away the time in here. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I make my way out to the entrance hall and aim for the portraits, intending to pass a few minutes studying them in more detail. With no one at the desk now, I’m free to investigate without being bothered, but I’ve only taken a closer look at the first two paintings when I hear a distant laugh and my thoughts begin to wander. No matter how much I try to deny it, fuelled by too much wine and a good dose of alpha-male sexiness, intrigue’s begun to raise its head. Turning to the door opposite the bar, and noting a security camera just above it, I wonder if my moves are being tracked.

  ‘To hell with it.’

  Making straight for the door, I push it open, only to be confronted by nothing more than a straight corridor, about a hundred feet long: to the right a series of mahogany doors, evenly spaced; to the left, those vertical windows giving out onto the car park. Sorely disappointed there’s nothing more to see, I retreat to the terrace, but I’ve only just re-entered the lobby when I’m stopped in my tracks by the sight of Celine back at the desk.

  ‘Not much to see down there,’ she says. ‘Nothing but private rooms.’

  ‘I was just...’ I point back at the doorway. ‘I’m sorry. It’s probably not allowed.’

  ‘There’s very little off-limits here.’ She cocks her head. ‘If you like, I could show you more of the building?’

  ‘More?’ I ask, thrown by the offer. ‘I’m sure you’re too busy...’

  ‘Not at all, and I’d love to give you a tour.’ Emerging from behind the desk, she holds out a hand. ‘You can leave your bag here.’

  I get the impression it’s an offer I can’t refuse. And I’m not about to, because that sense of intrigue isn’t backing off any time soon, and there’s bugger all else to do. I hand over the bag, watching as she stows it away in the office.

  ‘Let’s start down there. The East Wing.’

  She nods to the corridor I’ve just dipped into, and I follow her back down it, wondering why she’s beginning with a place where, by her own admission, there’s not much to see.

  ‘The house was built in the 1930s,’ she explains, stopping outside the second mahogany door. ‘By Sir Arthur Francombe, a notorious playboy in his time. It was intended as a country retreat, a place where he could host his friends for wild weekends. It’s rumoured that Edward and Wallis Simpson stayed here.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  She produces a card and waves it over the locking system. ‘The good times didn’t last long. The Francombe family lost most of their wealth in the forties, mostly down to Sir Arthur’s lavish ways and post-war taxes. The house remained in the family, but fell into disrepair.’ She grabs the handle. ‘When Sebastian took control six years ago, it was nothing more than a shell, ripe for demolition. But seeing as he was saving the heart of the place, he had very little trouble with planning permission, which meant the various extensions and lodges could be added as long as they were all in line with the Art Deco style. These rooms aren’t part of the original floor plan, by the way.’

  Opening the door, she motions me to enter, and I step into a spacious bedroom. Maybe thirty feet square, it’s sumptuous, warm and totally in sync with the Art Deco theme that permeates the building. Flanked by a sturdy pair of bedside tables, a king-sized bed dominates the space, fashioned from dark wood, and complete with a carved post at each corner. Inching forwards, I inspect the covers: a range of sheets and throws in a variety of colours: deep reds, russet browns, olive greens.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ I take in the rest of the room: an open doorway leading into a luxurious en-suite; a built-in wardrobe, with mirrored doors reflecting the bed in all its glory; an armchair, a chaise-longue, an occasional table and finally, fixed to the wall opposite the bed, a wooden cross set at an angle, manacles attached to each extremity.

  ‘These are private rooms,’ Celine informs me. ‘We have four bedrooms running along the ground floor on this side. Eight more along the full length of the first floor. There are ten more rooms in the east extension, and then we also have the lodges on the west side. All the rooms are pretty much like this one. They’re hired out by guests who want to stay over. Some are rented long-term. This one is. Members like to kit them out with their own equipment.’

  ‘Who rents this?’ I’d love to know, because they’ve seriously got taste.

  ‘A gentleman. I can’t say any more.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Suddenly mesmerised by the leather cuffs, I stare at the cross, sensing a heat building between my thighs as I wonder what it would feel like to be bound there, totally helpless.

  ‘You’ll find one of these in every room. It’s a St Andrew’s cross. You can guess how it’s used.’

  ‘Torture?’

  She laughs quietly. ‘Some people enjoy pain. Some people don’t. Whatever it’s used for, it’s always consensual. And it’s never torture.’

  ‘I’m sorry. This is all new to me. I mean, I’ve read about it, but never...you know...’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  I have no idea where the next question comes from. ‘Have you done it?’ Immediately, I slap my hand over my mouth. ‘Sorry. That’s going a bit far.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem talking about sex,’ she assures me. ‘And yes, I have done this...and I still do.’

  I lower the hand. ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘These rooms are just the tip of the iceberg. We have other facilities.’

  ‘Facilities?’

  She nods. ‘A swimming pool, jacuzzis, specialised rooms, communal areas.’

  ‘Communal?’

  ‘Communal.’ Her eyes gleam with humour. I realise I like this woman. Now she’s lowering her defences, there’s something about her that puts me at ease. ‘While some people prefer their privacy, others like to share.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Share.’

  ‘Would you like to see?’

  ‘See?’ The question knocks me for six. ‘See...people...doing it?’

  She nods again, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if she’s just asked me if I’d like to view a flower display. But it’s weird...too weird.

  ‘I’m not a peeping Tom.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, but the people who use the communal areas don’t mind being watched. In fact, it’s sort of expected. Part of the attraction, so to speak.’

  I stare at her. ‘I’m not sure...’

  ‘What harm can it do?’

  ‘None, I suppose.’

  I must be under some sort of charm, or halfway drunk – or both – because with no further remonstration, I allow Celine to lead the way back to the end of the wing, through the entrance hall, past the portraits and out through the doors at the back. A
nother deserted corridor awaits us, but this time it’s short, panning out to either side at the end.

  ‘So, this is known as The Circle,’ Celine explains, business-like again. ‘Built into the rear part of the original mansion without altering the external appearance. There used to be a ballroom here. Imagine those parties.’

  I certainly would, if I weren’t currently imagining what I’m about to see.

  ‘The entrance.’ She motions to a set of double doors directly in front of us. ‘The main area’s encircled by rooms.’ She leads me to the right, round a curved corridor that’s interspersed with mirrors and paintings, and more mahogany doors to the left. ‘No windows here.’ She motions to the walls then comes to a halt, opening a door slightly and checking the room’s vacant before she ushers me into the gloom. ‘Anyone can use these rooms...and the equipment.’

  It’s the equipment that hits me first: chains and manacles suspended from ceiling beams, some sort of bench, a strange swing, another St Andrew’s cross, a rack of whips and floggers. This is obviously where the serious business goes on.

  ‘Okay.’ I turn my attention to a thick, heavy curtain draped across the wall opposite the door.

  ‘And this is The Circle.’ Drawing back the curtain, Celine reveals a large, communal area.

  And I let loose a small, involuntary gasp.

  Under soft, low lighting given out by a series of lamps, the wall sweeps round a floor-space that’s a good couple of feet lower than the surrounding rooms. At the centre of The Circle, laid out on a raised dais and surrounded by two crescent-shaped couches, I make out a variety of equipment – a free-standing St Andrew’s cross, more benches, a metal frame adorned with chains and manacles; and arranged around the outside of the couches, six large beds, three of which are currently occupied – one by at least four people, all stark naked and tangled up in each other’s limbs...and writhing.

  ‘This is really...’ I focus back on the orgy bed, catching a tousle of auburn hair. ‘Oh, is that Marnie?’

  Celine cranes her neck. ‘No, Monsieur Dupont doesn’t use The Circle. She’ll be in his private room.’

  We slip into silence. And while the minutes pass by, the more I watch, the more fascinated I become. Before long, I’ve somehow forgotten all previous embarrassment, and I’m allowing myself a little fantasy: I’m down there right now, on one of those beds, thrashing about with Max Delaney. It’s only the sight of a familiar face emerging from the melee that jolts me back to reality. It’s the barrister.

  ‘Oh God.’ I turn to Celine.

  Still glued to the scene in front of us, her cat-like eyes dance with delight.

  ‘Do you indulge in this?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘Not my thing. I prefer one-on-one. I’m a submissive. Ever heard of that?’

  ‘I’ve read about it, but I don’t understand it. I don’t think I could give up control.’

  ‘I didn’t think I could either... not until I actually tried it. It was a revelation.’

  ‘But what do you get out of it?’

  She pauses before launching into a quiet, unhurried explanation. ‘No decisions to be made, just orders to follow. When I’m submissive, I become nothing more than a sexual being. It’s an escape, a release. And then afterwards...I feel stronger.’ She gives a slight shrug. ‘Some people turn to alcohol, or drugs...or maybe meditation. I choose sex. And I choose to be submissive. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism.’

  I stare at the screen siren, awed by her honesty and silently musing that her strange coping mechanism seems to be working perfectly, because I’ve never met anyone so self-possessed, so in control. And then, quite inevitably, I think of my own coping mechanism: the evening glass of wine becoming ever more frequent, a glass turning into half a bottle, a full bottle here and there – a mechanism that’s morphing into habit, and hardly helping me to cope at all.

  ‘Seen enough?’ Celine asks briskly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then come and have a drink with me.’

  I’m expecting her to lead me back to the bar, but she stops in the entrance hall and directs me into the office. As soon as I enter, my attention’s captured by a bank of monitors behind a desk, each one displaying a different scene from the club. I can see why the bar’s deserted: quite a crowd have gathered in the pool, another in a Jacuzzi, and even more people are now entering The Circle.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Celine motions to a vintage leather armchair.

  Sinking into it, I watch her pour me a glass of water. ‘No more wine?’

  ‘You might want to sober up a little.’ She hands me the glass.

  ‘Why?’

  She holds my gaze for a few seconds before giving an answer. ‘Because I have a proposition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Heck. Why didn’t I notice before? It’s obvious. Celine’s into women, and she wants to get jiggy with me. I need to let her down gently. ‘I’m not...er...that way inclined.’

  ‘Neither am I. It’s not me making the proposition. I’m negotiating on behalf of a third party.’

  I choke on a mouthful of water. ‘Third party?’

  ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you.’ She settles herself behind the desk. ‘I gave you a tour because I wanted you to feel a little more...relaxed.’

  Did she now? ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ve had a request.’ She taps the desk. ‘Apparently, you’ve caught the attention of a certain gentleman. He’s a member here, and he’d like to spend some time with you in his private room.’

  ‘Why?’ Damn it. What a stupid question.

  Celine bites back a laugh. ‘The usual reason.’

  In a state of complete shock, I lean forward and mouth my next question.

  ‘Sex?’

  And then, while Celine nods, I flounder in a sea of disbelief. As if the evening couldn’t get any more bizarre...

  ‘But why couldn’t he ask me himself?’

  ‘He likes to remain anonymous.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s possible. I mean, if I see him in his room...’

  ‘There are ways around the issue.’

  What ways, I’d like to ask, but my throat seems to have dried up.

  ‘I understand. You’re probably feeling very nervous about this.’

  ‘No shit,’ I croak.

  ‘After all, this sort of thing is completely new to you.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ I finish off the water. Suddenly, I actually want to be sober.

  ‘The gentleman in question uses the bedroom you viewed. He asked me to show it to you.’

  ‘He did?’ With my heart suddenly racing at a thousand miles an hour, I realise I’ve been ambushed by lust, intrigue and alcohol. All playing their part, they’ve furtively opened some unseen door...and let temptation step into the fray. ‘Did he ask you to show me The Circle?’

  ‘No. That was my idea. He doesn’t use The Circle. We just needed time to speak.’

  ‘Okay.’ I bite my lip. ‘So, what can you tell me about this man?’ Really? I just asked that?

  ‘You’re interested then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Perhaps. It’s possible.

  ‘We’ll just refer to him as X.’

  ‘Does he know my name?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him about that.’

  ‘And you won’t give it to him?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I don’t want you to.’ Good grief. It sounds like I’m already agreeing, but I’m not...am I? ‘So, how would he remain anonymous? If I did go to his room?’

  Celine hesitates, taps her fingers some more and then, as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary, delivers the solution to the problem. ‘You’d be blindfolded.’

  ‘Good God.’ I’ve been spotted by a kinky one. But then again, they must all be kinky in this place. There’s a twinge in my knickers. A big one. Sod it. I really am turned on.

  ‘He insists on it. And, of course, he’ll remain silent.’

  ‘
Silent. Of course.’ I take a deep breath. ‘He’s done this before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Sadly, no. He’s very picky. In fact, he hasn’t done this sort of thing for a while now, but you seem to have whetted his appetite.’

  And I can’t deny it: he’s certainly whetted mine. ‘But this is weird,’ I complain, determined to keep a hold on common sense.

  ‘Not in my world. In my world, it’s all perfectly normal.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’ I take in a few deep breaths. ‘So, I assume you know who he is.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I don’t know...’

  ‘I’m assured you won’t regret it.’

  ‘By him?’

  ‘By ladies who’ve experienced his attentions in the past.’

  Oh Lord. Another twinge, and common sense threatens to make a bolt for it.

  ‘I don’t know...’

  ‘But I think you’re interested.’

  ‘Yes, well, but...’

  Interested? In sex with a total stranger? And kinky sex at that? Eyeing the monitors – but seeing nothing – I think about the past few months: time wasted clinging to the crap metaphorical wreckage of a crap metaphorical ship, depending on a coping mechanism that’s produced nothing but arguments, embarrassment and hangovers. And then I lock eyes with Celine – a woman who seems to be everything I want to be – and find myself wondering if it’s time to try a new approach.

  ‘Is it safe?’ I ask.

  ‘One hundred percent. He’s not sadistic, doesn’t enjoy inflicting pain, and he’s certainly not into anything dangerous like breath control.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘And naturally, he’d use a condom. That goes without saying.’

  ‘Well, yes...’

  ‘So if you are interested, we could discuss the finer details.’

  ‘Finer details?’

  ‘The nitty-gritty.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ I’m surprised at my own words. Am I edging closer to a decidedly odd decision?

  Celine’s eyes twinkle. ‘If you were to say yes, X would require you to be submissive.’