One

Samantha’s knock on the door didn’t rouse Sandy from his sleep at first. It wasn’t until she had entered the room and drawn back the curtains, letting bright sunlight stream through the windows, that he opened his eyes, startled to see her there. He had kicked off the duvet during the night, and only as he sat up did he remember what he was wearing, desperately pulling the duvet up to cover himself. 

“What are you doing, Sam?” he squealed.

“Wake you up, and get you ready, of course, silly. I do it every day, although yesterday, Mhairi said to let you sleep as you looked tired.”

“I don’t need help getting ready, Sam. I’m a grown-up, if you hadn’t noticed.” He aimed for light sarcasm, but it fell flat as Samantha put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“If it was good enough for Lady Eleanor, then it’s good enough for you,” she added, “Sir”, almost as an afterthought. She ploughed on. “Come on, sir. I haven’t got all day.” She pulled the duvet from his hands, and he tried to grab it back, but she ripped it from his grasp. “My, those little pyjamas look so sweet on you. I knew it,” she said triumphantly.

Sandy turned beetroot red, but Samantha ploughed on. “Now, take your shower and wash your hair. Oh, and don’t forget the conditioner. When you’ve finished, I’ll blow-dry and style your hair.” 

Before Sandy could say a word, Samantha disappeared into the dressing room and returned with a silk robe to match the pyjamas. She said, “You can wear this.” 

What on earth was going on? This was all going too far, he thought. He had to stop it now. He opened his mouth to tell her that enough was enough when she stopped him with a finger to his lips and whispered, “You do want to look pretty for Sir Robert when he arrives, don’t you?” 

“What? No. I mean, yes. I mean…” Her question had scrambled his mind, and he couldn’t think straight. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”  

“Come on, get out of bed,” she ordered. “Now, turn around and put your arms out.” Feeling slightly foolish, he did as she said, and she slid the robe over his arms and settled it over his shoulders. “There, that’s better. Now, hurry. I’ll be waiting.”

Only when he stepped into the shower did he regain his composure. Samantha was going too far, he decided. He would have to put his foot down and put a stop to this nonsense. But as he shampooed and conditioned his hair, he realised he did like the idea of looking good when Overstrand arrived. But why on earth had she said ‘pretty'? He wrapped his hair in a towel turban, as his mother had taught him to do before she did his hair. 

Emerging from the bathroom, he found Samantha waiting for him, with the hairdryer and brushes laid out on the dressing table. A knowing smile spread across her face as she caught sight of him wearing the turban. She made him sit at the dressing table and removed the towel. Sliding her fingers through his hair, she made disapproving noises.

“What?” he said.

She pulled a face at him in the mirror. “We need to deal with your split ends, but for now, I’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.”

“I do my best,” he whined, sounding like a child who hadn’t done their homework correctly.

Samantha ignored him, using a towel to dry his hair until it was damp, then worked volumising mousse into it. Working quickly, one section at a time, Samantha used the brush and hairdryer to style Sandy’s hair, finishing with a texturising spray. 

The sound and warmth of the hairdryer, and the tug of the brush as Samantha worked, sent him back to the days when his mother used to do his hair. He closed his eyes and felt safe and happy in a way he hadn’t for a long time. He opened them to realise that Samantha had finished and was looking at him curiously in the mirror.

“Where were you? You were miles away,” she said.

“Oh, thinking about when my mother used to do my hair,” he said, his face flushed.

“Well, I’m not your mum, but how does this look?”

He looked in the mirror and did a double-take. His hair looked softer, smoother, and more voluminous than he could ever remember. The waves flowed around his head and gleamed as if a light were shining through them, he thought. He moved his head first one way, then the other, loving how it made him look.

“Well?” Samantha asked. “What do you think? Is it okay?”

“No,” He said, and he saw Samantha’s face drop. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Sam. I can’t believe how good it looks.”

She beamed. “You’re welcome, sweetie. Now, come on, we both have work to do.”

Sandy stood up and wrapped his arms around Samantha, before she could move away.

“Thank you, Sam,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

She held the embrace for a moment and whispered, “Anytime, Sandy, anytime.”

Samantha gathered her things and left him to get dressed. He sat for a while, staring at himself in the mirror. What had she said? Did he want to look pretty for Overstrand? He now knew the answer. Yes, he did.

After breakfast, the morning flew by. The translation was flowing smoothly, and Sandy looked forward to seeing Overstrand again. He kept playing with his hair, and when Samantha brought coffee and saw him, she told him to stop, or she would tie his hands behind his back. Lunch came and went, and as the time passed, he found it harder and harder to concentrate, waiting for Overstrand's arrival.

 




Two

At some point in the afternoon, the sound of an approaching helicopter broke Sandy’s concentration, and he watched it hover before landing on the lawn. The rooks left their trees, careering around, and cawing noisily in a vain attempt to scare away the intruder. The rotors slowed, and a few seconds later, the helicopter door opened. His heart lifted when the unmistakable figure of Overstrand appeared and jumped to the ground. Sandy expected him to walk straight to the house. Instead, he turned back to the door and held out his hand to help the blonde woman who appeared at the door of the helicopter.

Sandy watched as one elegant heel, then a second, appeared on the top step. Less elegantly, the woman hitched up her skirt to descend, and Overstrand held her hand to steady her. Overstrand seemed already to have found someone new, and a stab of jealousy shot through Sandy. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. It was foolish to think like that, but he couldn’t help himself.

The woman stood up and almost hit her head on one of the slowly spinning rotor blades. Overstrand kept her head down with his hand as they walked away from the helicopter. Sandy relished a delicious moment of schadenfreude when one of her heels caught in the grass and slipped off, leaving her to hop around until Overstrand retrieved the shoe for her.

He now had a better view of the woman and thought she looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Mhairi was waiting to greet the couple before they disappeared from his view into the house. Sandy went back to the diary, and about thirty minutes later, the door opened, and Overstrand looked in.

“Hello, Sandy. It’s wonderful to see you here. Am I disturbing you?”

Sandy stood. “Of course not, Robert. Please come in.” The two shook hands, a jolt of electricity pulsing through Sandy at the touch.

“Mhairi tells me you’re settling in well, and I’m excited to find out how you’re getting on with the translation.”

“It’s going well.” Sandy gestured to the diary on the desk. “The diary is a revelation. Come and look at what I’ve done on the laptop.”

He pulled up a chair for Overstrand, and they sat side by side to look at the laptop. He opened the document he was working on, and Overstrand leaned in to read. Their heads drew close, and Sandy caught the scent of Overstrand’s cologne, making him close his eyes again. Concentrate on the job, he told himself, but his thoughts betrayed him. A vision of Overstrand kissing him raced through his mind.

“You’ve done well, Sandy.” Overstrand’s voice dragged him back. “Much more progress than I’d imagined by now.” 

“Thank you, Robert. That means a lot.” 

They turned towards each other, and Overstrand’s leg brushed against Sandy’s. Embarrassed, he jerked his leg away, but it happened again. Was that deliberate? This time, neither Sandy nor Overstrand moved his leg. He jumped as he realised Overstrand was still speaking to him.

“...and I hope you will join Annabelle and me for dinner tonight. Nothing formal. Come as you are. Shall we say seven o’clock in the drawing room? By the way, that's a lovely fragrance you’re wearing. That was Eleanor’s favourite scent.”

Caught by surprise, Sandy fumbled for words. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I forgot my shower gel, so I used the one in the bathroom.”

Overstrand stood and put his hand on Sandy’s shoulder. “Of course, I don’t mind. It suits you. Please use anything you find up there. By the way, I like your hair. Mhairi told me Samantha gave it a makeover. It looks wonderful.” He squeezed Sandy’s shoulder and said, “See you later.”

After Overstrand left, Sandy rested his forehead on the table and let out the breath he had been holding. He was utterly confused. What was going on? Don’t be stupid, he told himself. You have a crush, and it’s making you delirious. This had to stop. 

He sat up, literally smacking his forehead with his palm. He remembered who Annabelle was. She was the host of a reality television show that set out to find the next big glamour model. Beautiful and intelligent, he thought she would be precisely the type of woman to appeal to Overstrand. 

Sandy returned to the diary for a while, but his mind was elsewhere, so he packed everything away and retreated to his room. He tried to distract himself with the Commissario Brunetti book, but his mind kept circling back to Overstrand. He closed his eyes and imagined himself as the woman in the helicopter. He saw himself on Overstrand’s arm at first nights, the opera, banquets, intimate dinners, and finally in his bed. Calm down, he told himself. He must stop these ridiculous fantasies. Still, he allowed himself a smile at the idea.

Samantha didn’t come to turn down the bed, and he assumed she was helping Mhairi and the chef with dinner preparations. Overstrand had said, ‘Come as you are,’ but Sandy thought he should at least make an effort. He hadn’t anticipated dining with Sir Robert, let alone the ultra-glamorous TV star. He picked out a pair of trousers and his best shirt, which he thought were at least smart casual. Samantha had hung them up in the dressing room, so at least the shirt was wrinkle-free. They hung on a rail beside some exquisite dresses that had belonged to Lady Eleanor. Feeling guilty, he looked through a dazzling collection of designer frocks that would have bankrupted a small nation. He sighed, wondering what it would be like to wear such beautiful clothes. Reluctantly, he returned to the dressing table and brushed his hair, trying to make it look as attractive as Samantha’s. 

He had worn his hair long ever since he could remember. As a teenager, he had resisted all attempts to have it cut ‘like a real boy’, as his father insisted. He would have loved his father’s approval for something, anything, but their relationship had always been complicated. Sandy wasn’t the son he had dreamed of, but Sandy’s mother was more understanding. Of course, he endured a lot of teasing for his long hair, and its colour, his foreign name, and, well, just for being different. At school, they called him names like 'carrot top' or 'ginger knob’, and because he was small and slender, it only made things worse. 

He had no interest in sport, preferring dance and drama, which drew even more derision. It was an all-boys school, and in the final year before he went to university, Sandy played Beatrice in the school's production of Much Ado About Nothing. Initially reluctant, knowing it would only fuel the bullies, he was surprised and delighted to discover he loved playing the sharp-tongued Beatrice. For the first time in his life, he felt he had found something that truly fulfilled him. Of course, it didn't stop the bullying and name-calling, but it gave him the confidence to ignore them.

Sandy ran his fingers through his hair, and with one last look in the mirror, he took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

 

Three
Overstrand and Annabelle were already in the drawing room. He stood before the fireplace, and she lounged on a sofa, drinks already in their hands. It was immediately clear that ‘Come as you are’ meant something very different to Annabelle and Overstrand than to Sandy. Overstrand wore a dark blue suit over a white shirt, with two buttons undone at the neck, revealing a hint of curly hair, black loafers, and a huge Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. Overstrand could easily have been a model for Tom Ford, Sandy thought, and Annabelle looked no less stunning. She wore a tight black dress with a plunging neckline that revealed generous amounts of tanned skin, a pearl necklace and earrings, several gold bangles, and her hair swept back in an elegant updo. Scarlet lipstick and nails made a vivid contrast with the black of her dress. They looked like a Vogue photo spread, whereas Sandy felt more like a tramp at a Paris runway show.

Overstrand beckoned him to join them. “Sandy, this is Annabelle. You might recognise her from her dreadful television programme. She’s filming at Ampleforth Abbey, and I offered her a lift in the helicopter from London. Annabelle, meet Sandy, my wonderful translator.” 

Still seated, Annabelle raised an elegant, manicured hand for him to shake. “Sandy, don’t pay any attention to what he says. He owns the production company behind the show, which makes him a shitload of money. Delighted to meet you, Sandy. Robert hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

Startled, he glanced at Overstrand, who smiled and said, “What would you like to drink, Sandy?”

“Gin and tonic, please," Sandy said. Overstrand pressed a button on the wall, and Samantha appeared as if by magic. “Samantha, a gin and tonic for Sandy. Oh, and refills for Annabelle and me, please.”

Annabelle patted the sofa beside her and said, “Sandy, come sit here. I want to hear all about you and this diary Robert’s been banging on about. I love your hair, by the way. It makes you look…” She tilted her head to look at him, and he had the odd feeling she was appraising him. “…well, very cute. Tell me, is red hair common in Italy?” 

Samantha, who was collecting the empty glasses and had overheard, caught his eye and winked. Embarrassed, he turned back to Annabelle, who was watching him expectantly. 

Sandy thought about correcting her, pointing out that his hair was auburn, not red, but decided to let it pass. 

“Thank you, Annabelle. Samantha did it for me this morning.”

Annabelle raised an eyebrow, turned to look at Samantha, who was still hovering nearby, and said, “Maybe she’ll do me sometime.”

Samantha, who had clearly heard the remark, blushed, to Sandy’s astonishment.

Sandy turned to Annabelle. “I’m a bit star-struck meeting you, to be honest,” he said. “I’m a big fan.” 

She smiled, casting a glance towards Overstrand. “That’s sweet of you, but tonight isn’t about me. ”

Samantha returned, and Sandy caught Annabelle’s eyes lingering on her as she bent to serve the drinks. Odd, he thought, but Samantha looked even more beautiful tonight. He thought she was wearing more makeup than usual. A little green-eyed jealousy, perhaps, he wondered. Competition for Overstrand’s attention, maybe?

Mhairi appeared at the door. “Dinner is ready, Sir Robert.”

“Great,” said Annabelle. “I’m starving.” They stood, and Annabelle slipped her arm through Sandy’s. The gesture surprised him, and he glanced at Overstrand to gauge his reaction, but Overstrand didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s drink lots of his wine,” she whispered. “I made him promise to bring out the good stuff tonight.” 

Sandy was walking on air as they made their way to the dining room, a beautiful woman on his arm. Annabelle leaned in and whispered, “He is gorgeous, don’t you think? You would, wouldn’t you, if you had the chance?” Before Sandy could think of a reply, they reached the dining room door, where Mhairi was waiting. 

The room looked enchanting. Silver candelabras stood on the table, their candlelight making the glassware and cutlery sparkle. Overstrand pulled out a chair for Annabelle, then did the same for Sandy before sitting between them at the head of the table. Mhairi poured some wine into Overstrand’s glass for him to taste. “Excellent, Mhairi. Thank you.” Once she had filled their glasses, Overstrand raised his glass in a toast. “Welcome back to Wychwood, Annabelle. And, Sandy, welcome for the first time, but not the last, I hope. Cin-cin.”

After an appetiser of tuna carpaccio, Samantha served the first course of burrata al tartufo with mushrooms and shaved truffle, while Mhairi refilled their glasses. Mhairi announced that the main course was fegato alla Veneziana, and Overstrand raised his glass in a toast. “This is in honour of our shared love of Venice, Sandy.”

Annabelle pulled a face. “I’ve always wondered why you have this obsession with Venice, Robert.”

It was a question Sandy had long wanted to ask, but he hadn't found the right moment. Overstrand hesitated, took a large sip of wine, then looked at Sandy. “You know I was expelled from school, yes?” Sandy nodded; that at least was public knowledge. “My father wanted me to join his business, but that was the last thing I wanted to do. I had money burning a hole in my pocket, and like most of us at that age, I wanted to travel. So I spent the next six months on a hedonistic Grand Tour of Europe’s party cities: Ibiza, Paris, St. Tropez, Florence, Mykonos, Berlin, Amsterdam, and Athens. By the time I reached Rome, I was exhausted and wanted somewhere to decompress.”

He took another sip of wine, and Annabelle said, “Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll?”

Overstrand’s coy smile said it all. “All of the above, Annabelle. All of the above. Anyway, I had read Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice at school, and it left a strong impression on me.”

Sandy couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, “Me too,” before blushing and saying, “Sorry.” 

Overstrand waved his hand to forgive Sandy, before Annabelle said, “I saw the film. Art house pretension, if you ask me.”

Overstrand looked at Annabelle and said without rancour, “Nobody is asking you, Annabelle dear, and you’re missing the point.” He smiled at Sandy. “Sandy knows what I mean.”

Flustered by the remark, Sandy gulped his wine, making him feel even giddier than he already was.

"Anyway,” continued Overstrand, “I made my way to Venice intending to stay only for a couple of days. I arrived to find it was what they call ‘Aqua Alta,’ when the lagoon’s high water floods the city. You had to walk across St Mark's Square on wooden trestles, and I almost turned around and left, but luckily, I couldn’t get a flight out, so I stayed. It taught me just how fragile the city is and how urgent the need to preserve it for the future. I grew angry at how the city was being abused and destroyed by everyone, not just tourists, but also by the industries that pollute the lagoon and by the Venetians themselves. I fell in love with the city and decided I would do whatever I could to help.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I don’t get it. The canals stink, it floods all the time, and the buildings are collapsing. All you can hear is bloody Vivaldi, and the fish from the lagoon are full of toxins. Crime is rampant, prices are horrendous, and the whole place is sinking.”

Her words took Sandy aback, even as he accepted that some, if not all, of what she said was true. He looked to Overstrand to gauge his reaction, and Overstrand shook his head and said calmly, “Even so, Annabelle, Venice has something no other city in the world has. It has a soul.”

Annabelle snorted. 

“You may mock, Annabelle, but Sandy knows it, too. Isn’t that right?” Overstrand turned to Sandy, but the question caught him off guard. He swallowed, buying a moment before answering. He was aware that both Overstrand and Annabelle were watching him, waiting for his reply. He had the odd feeling that much would depend on what he was about to say.

“Venice is unique,” he began. “After all, it shouldn't be there at all; a city built on 118 small islands, supported by wooden pilings in a marsh, like some heavenly magic trick. It’s unique not because of the canals, churches, palaces, history, art, music, or cuisine, because many other places have some or most of those things, but only Venice has them all. There’s also something else that distinguishes Venice from anywhere else. It’s such a fragile place, balanced precariously between land and sea, in danger of being reclaimed by the swamp, yet stubbornly surviving. Every Venetian knows this and learns to live with it. It ties them to the city in a mystical way. As if the city, the water, and the people are bound together, indivisible, part of a bigger whole. I’m not sure what else to call that, if not a soul. So, yes, I think Venice has a soul.”

After he finished, a silence fell that seemed to stretch on forever. Sandy feared he had made a fool of himself, but Overstrand suddenly slapped the table and said, “Thank you, Sandy. I could not have said it better.” He turned to Annabelle. “That’s why it's worth fighting for, Annabelle.”

She wasn’t going to give in without a fight and said, “Robert, that simply makes you Venice’s Don Quixote.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tilting at windmills, you mean? Not so, Annabelle. In this case, it is not a futile gesture. The city can and must be saved.” A grin spread across his face. “If I’m Don Quixote, does that make Sandy my Sancho Panza?”

Sandy laughed nervously as Annabelle turned to stare at him, and he felt as if she were looking into his soul. “No,” she said slowly, as if making up her mind. “I think his character in your joint crusade is yet to be clear. But I think it will be much more interesting for you both than you can see now.”

Sandy blushed, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. He looked down at the table, avoiding Annabelle’s gaze. Samantha came to his rescue, bringing in a huge bowl of tiramisu for dessert. 

Annabelle watched Samantha leave, then fanned her face with her hand and said, “She is so fucking hot in that outfit. I would have her on the table if only my wife weren’t so jealous. You know, Fleur even comes to the set with me when we're filming to make sure I don't get up to anything with all those wannabe Bella Hadids. Mind you, she has a right to be suspicious. She’s away in the States for a couple of weeks, and I’m so horny. My fingers and wrist are aching so much I might have given myself a repetitive strain injury.”

Overstrand laughed. “Annabelle, keep your hands to yourself. Samantha is already taken, as you well know.”

“Mmm-hmm. We’re all allowed our fantasies, aren’t we, Robert?”

Overstrand smiled, and Sandy thought he caught a glint in the man’s eye as he said. “Indeed, we are, Annabelle.”

Sandy’s mouth had dropped open, and he looked wide-eyed from Annabelle to Overstrand. Did Annabelle really say she has a wife? What did Overstrand mean by ‘Samantha is taken’? 

Overstrand saw the look on his face. “Sandy, you must have known. I thought you said you were a fan. Annabelle bats for the other side. Isn’t that right, Annabelle?”

Her eyes flashed, and she scowled at him. “Robert, did you really just say ‘bats for the other side’? I hate it when you say things like that. It’s the kind of mealy-mouthed thing your bloody father would have said. Call it what it is, for God’s sake.” 

Sandy was amazed to hear Annabelle speak so directly to Overstrand, who looked somewhat abashed by Annabelle’s words. She turned to Sandy. “I don’t want to spoil any fantasy you may have about me, Sandy. But yes, I am gay.” She paused, glancing at Overstrand. “But perhaps your fantasy isn’t about me?”

Heat rushed to Sandy’s face, and he wanted to flee but remained rooted to his chair.

“Annabelle, don’t tease him,” Overstrand cut in. “Sandy, pay no attention to her. As usual, she’s had too much to drink.”

His mind was reeling. There were so many thoughts spinning around in his head that he didn’t know what to think. Annabelle wasn’t the only one who had drunk too much, which didn’t help him think straight. He was trying to process what he had heard when Overstrand spoke again.

“I’ll tell you what, Annabelle. If Mhairi gets bored with Samantha, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”

Sandy must have looked shocked once more because Annabelle giggled. “Oh, no,” she said. “Sandy has discovered another of Wychwood’s little secrets.”

He looked at Overstrand. “Oh, when you said Samantha was taken, I thought you meant—”

“You thought it was me?” Overstrand threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Oh, no. That’s priceless. Not my thing at all. My grandfather told me never to fuck the staff, but it never stopped him. ‘Do what I say, not what I do’ was his motto. He didn’t discriminate between maids and valets.” Overstrand smiled. “He was one of the first equal-opportunity employers.”

“The apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree,” Annabelle said under her breath, but loud enough for Sandy to hear. 

“What’s that, Annabelle?” Overstrand had gone to fetch the bottle of wine and hadn’t heard her.

“Just saying that you are shocking your new friend.” She winked at Sandy, who blushed and had to look away.

Overstrand looked at Sandy. “What happens in Wychwood stays in Wychwood. Isn’t that right, Sandy?”

Before he could reply, Annabelle said, “So, he made you sign an NDA?”

Overstrand jumped in. “Of course I did. Standard practice.”

“I was happy to sign it, Annabelle,” Sandy said. “What I’m doing here with the diary is confidential, so it’s no big deal.”

He caught Annabelle eyeing him with a quizzical look on her face. “Mmm-hmm. Make sure you know what you’re in for, sweetie.”

Sweetie? Why did she call me that? Before he could say anything, Overstrand announced, “Let’s have coffee in the drawing room.” As they rose, Annabelle rested her hand gently on Sandy’s arm. “You did well tonight, sweetie. He likes you.”

Before Sandy could react, Overstrand waved a bottle at them. “Grappa, everyone?”

“Ugh, no, thank you,” said Annabelle, wrinkling her nose and glancing at her watch. “Tastes like sheep dip. Anyway, I have to go. I’m filming tomorrow and need to prepare. Is it still all right for your driver to take me to Ampleforth?”

“Of course, I’ll walk you to the door. Sandy, help yourself to the grappa.”

Sandy stood up, and Annabelle embraced him, speaking loudly enough for Overstrand to hear. “It’s been delightful to meet you, Sandy. You’re so sweet.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then whispered in his ear, “You’re good for him. He needs someone.”

Four

Sandy poured himself a grappa and waited for Overstrand to return. He was still reeling from what he had heard. Samantha and Mhairi are a couple. Annabelle is gay. Who knew? What about ‘the apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree’? Did she mean he was like his father? And what did she mean by ‘You’re good for him’?

Overstrand returned, smiling broadly, and Sandy’s heart fluttered.

“I hope you didn’t find Annabelle too much. She can be overpowering.”

“Certainly not, Robert. I liked her. She’s beautiful.”

“Smart as a whip, too. We met at university. She has a PhD in applied psychology, and I trust her judgement. I’ve used her on deals to assess people.” He paused, took a sip of the grappa, and looked straight at Sandy. “She’s never been wrong.”

Sandy didn't miss the implication. “Was she here to assess me?” he asked. Overstrand didn’t answer straight away, leaving an uncomfortable silence. He took another sip of grappa before replying. “Would you mind if she had been?” 

“What, assessing me? What for, exactly?”

Overstrand ignored the question. “She likes you. She thinks you are genuine and trustworthy. That you won’t betray me.”

“I would never betray you, Robert.”

“It’s happened before. Someone who I thought was my friend betrayed me, so I want to be sure about people who get close to me.”

‘Close to me’ reverberated in Sandy’s head. Did Overstrand really think of him like that?

“You mean a kind of vetting?” Sandy asked.

“Indeed,” said Overstrand, “You’ve learnt some secrets tonight that you could use against me. I trust you will keep them.”

“Robert, I promise I will never tell anyone.”

Overstrand put his hand over Sandy’s and said, “I appreciate that. Thank you.” The touch of Overstrand’s hand set his pulse racing, and he thought Overstrand must hear his heart banging like a drum in his chest. “I think it’s time to retire, Sandy. I’m leaving first thing. But congratulations on what you’ve done so far, and I’m looking forward to more revelations.” 

Overstrand moved his hand away, much to Sandy’s disappointment. On their way to the stairs, Overstrand was telling him something about the house, but Sandy wasn’t listening. He was still thinking about the touch of Overstrand’s hand. 

Overstrand broke into Sandy’s daydream. “I need to finish a few things in my office tonight, and I will be away early in the morning. I enjoyed our evening, and I hope there will be many more.”

“I had a delightful time, too. Thank you, Robert.”

Sandy was feeling the effects of the drink, but was sober enough to realise that Overstrand and Annabelle had been playing games that evening. He suspected some of it was about him, though he couldn’t understand why. Overstrand’s explanation that Annabelle was vetting him sounded plausible, but some of what Annabelle had said also hinted at something else.

Sandy knew he had a massive crush on Overstrand, but to think there was anything to it would be a product of his fevered imagination. He shrugged. He was too drunk and too tired to worry about it. After a night’s sleep, he could think more clearly. 

In the bedroom, Sandy froze as he saw what lay on the bed. Samantha had laid out a full-length black silk nightgown with delicate pearl embroidery around the neckline. He swallowed, his heart thumping. This was a step too far. But it was so pretty that he picked it up, shivering as the silk slid through his fingers. He knew he should put it back down, but he hesitated a beat too long and lost the battle almost before it had begun. 

In a trance, he walked into the dressing room and held the gown against himself in front of the mirror. It fell to his ankles, with a slit that reached almost to his thigh. It looked heavenly, he thought. Before he could change his mind, he threw off his clothes and slipped the gown over his head. The silk draped itself against his body, and he trembled with excitement. He ran his hands down the front of the gown, and a wave of pleasure washed over him. There were matching knickers, and he hurriedly pulled them on, sighing as they settled around him. 

Smoothing down the nightgown, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, struggling with what he should do. Heaving a deep sigh, he blew himself a kiss in the mirror and walked smiling to his bed. 

Wrapped in the silky embrace of his nightgown, Sandy drifted off to sleep, his mind full of the events of the evening.

 Five

Wobbling in unfamiliar high heels, he looks down at his maid’s uniform, with its frilled white apron, hoping to pass inspection. Smoothing the skirt to remove wrinkles, he hears the click-clack of approaching heels behind him. He keeps his eyes downcast and his hands clasped in front of his apron. Catching the scent of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle, he knows it is Mhairi.

“How many times must I tell you to tie your apron strings neatly?” Her voice is vinegar-sharp. “Do it again, now.” 

“Yes, Miss Mhairi.” His fingers fumble with the ties, untying and retying them quickly, but his nerves make him clumsy. She impatiently brushes his hands aside to tie the strings herself. “There, that's how to tie it properly. Will you never learn to get it right?” A hand glides across his backside, then a sharp slap. 

“Stand still, girl.” She barks.

“Yes, Miss Mhairi,” he says, his eyes still looking at the floor. 

“One of your seams is not straight. Did you get dressed in the dark?” 

“No, Miss Mhairi. Sorry.” 

Fingers brush the back of his leg as Mhairi adjusts the seam, making the stocking tug at the garter belt. Her fingers linger on his leg, making him shiver. 

“I will not accept this sloppiness. You need to learn a lesson.”

His heart leaps into his mouth. What does she mean? He trembles with fear and excitement, listening to the sound of her heels as she steps from behind to stand before him. With his eyes still downcast, all he can see are her shoes. They aren’t her comfortable flats but high, shiny black stilettos. 

“Look at me, girl.” 

He raises his head, and his eyes widen as he sees her. Instead of her usual grey work dress, she wears a tight black pencil skirt and a leather corset over a sheer white blouse, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her lips painted a vivid scarlet, and a scowl on her face.

“Your makeup is a mess. What shall I do with you?”

“Whatever you think I deserve, Miss Mhairi.”

“I think some discipline will be helpful for you, girl.”

"As you wish, Miss Mhairi.”

She pushes his head forward and fastens a leather collar around his neck, then clicks as she clips on a leash. He submits meekly, helpless yet thrilled. She tugs at the collar, a reminder of her control. 

“On your knees, girl,” she commands, tugging the leash again. He sinks to his knees, and Mhairi pulls down on the leash, forcing him onto all fours so he is looking down at her shoes. She pushes one leg forward so the shoe is beneath him.

“Kiss my shoe,” she orders.

He hesitates, but a sharp tug on the leash forces him to do as she wants. Bending forward, he touches the shoe with his lips. “And the other,” comes Mhairi’s voice from high above him. He has a sudden vision of himself on his hands and knees, his backside in the air, his skirt stretched taut across his buttocks, kissing her shoes.

“That’s better.” Mhairi turns and walks forward, forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees to follow her. He can only see her heels as she pulls him behind her. He feels his stockings laddering as he crawls, knowing it will earn him further punishment. She stops and yanks him up by the leash, but only to his knees, head down, staring at the ground. 

“Good girl,” Mhairi says as she blindfolds him with what must be a nylon stocking. He shudders as the suspense builds, unsure of what will happen. She binds his wrists behind his back with another stocking, the nylon slick against his skin. She pulls him to his feet, leading him onward until she barks, “Stop!” He senses someone else nearby as Mhairi nudges him in the back, and he falls forward, landing on his stomach across what must be someone’s lap. 

“Get her ready, my pet,” says Mhairi. A hand slaps his backside, making him wriggle. 

“Stay still, girl!” He recognises Samantha’s voice. He trembles, wondering with fear, and, he admits to himself, delight about what is to happen. Fingers slide up his leg until they reach the hem of his maid’s dress and then push up and under to reach the skin above the top of his stockings. He quivers as the fingers stroke his bare flesh before sliding down between his legs and beneath his silk underwear. He moans as a finger finds and rubs his perineum.

“Shhh,” Samantha whispers to him. She pushes the skirt up, and he feels her fingers tugging at his underwear until they slide down his legs. He shivers from the cold air on his bare buttocks, and Samantha delivers another slap to his backside, making him squeal.

“Stop squealing, you baby.” 

It seems to encourage her, and she lands more stinging slaps on each cheek, and he wriggles as the blows land on both buttocks. His backside is burning now, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out, but it’s in vain, and he squeals once more after a stinging slap. 

One of them grabs his hair and pulls his head back, and something round and solid is shoved between his teeth and fastened behind his head. It tastes of rubber, and his jaw aches as the gag pulls his mouth wide open.

“That will keep you quiet,” says Samantha. She pauses and applies something cold to his back entrance. A finger circles his hole, and he flinches as it penetrates him. Another slap makes him stop squirming, and he squeezes his eyes shut as a second finger, and then a third, is pushed inside.

“She’s ready for you,” says Samantha, and pulls him to his feet, his underwear around his ankles and his skirt bunched above his waist. Blindfolded, gagged, and with his wrists bound, he is helpless. He feels he is about to faint as he awaits what is to come, fear and excitement mixing into a cocktail that overwhelms him. Mhairi presses against him, and her hands reach around to twist his nipples hard between her fingers. He gurgles through the gag, and she does it again, harder this time, and his knees sag. Someone unties his wrists and pushes him down onto his hands and knees. Mhairi kneels behind him and pulls his head back just as something hard taps against his backside. He braces himself, and the thing slides into him, making him grunt in pain.

He awoke, his heart fluttering and his hands curled into fists as he struggled to catch his breath. The dream had been so vivid that it took him a few seconds to realise it was not real. It was the grappa, he told himself. Drinking grappa always gave him vivid dreams. Eventually, his heart rate slowed, and he slid back into sleep, hoping to return to the dream.

To be continued