Copyright © 2026 Nikkie Silk. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Venice
Early one February morning, as the mist rolls in from the Laguna and shrouds the first well-wrapped tourists gathered in front of the Basilica, Sandy sits at a window table inside Caffè Florian in Piazza San Marco, sipping a cappuccino and eating a cornetto, watching overexcited children scatter the pigeons, which, despite the efforts of the Venetian authorities, infest the square, only for them to settle again a few metres away, making Sandy smile at the memory of some much cleverer birds in a place far from Venice.
Wychwood
Day One
He/him
One
The taxi, which had been waiting for him at the railway station, turned off the main road and pulled up before a set of ornamental gates, flanked on either side by dry-stone walls. The driver leaned out of the car window and spoke into an intercom on the gatepost. “Mister Rossi for Sir Robert.”
The gates opened, and the taxi clattered over a cattle grid, through a copse of sycamores, then across a wooden bridge over a small river and along what must once have been a tree-lined avenue. Only small patches of bare earth remained, like a neat row of scars, marking where the trees had stood. The taxi scattered a group of large black birds squabbling over a piece of roadkill, sending them cawing into the air in annoyance. Sandy thought the driver had accelerated when he saw the birds.
“Bloody rooks, they should all be shot!” the driver exclaimed, then caught sight of Sandy’s surprised face in the mirror. “Sorry, sir, but they give me the willies. There’s something evil about them.”
Before Sandy could say anything, the taxi crested a small rise in the road, giving him his first glimpse of Wychwood. "Wow!” he said out loud before he could stop himself. Whoever had laid out the estate had deliberately placed the rise there to create a stunning reveal of the house for visitors.
“Aye, sir,” said the driver. “It’s a grand house for sure.” He hesitated before going on, “But folk around here tell stories about it.”
“Oh? What kind of stories?”
“Old wives’ tales and superstition, I reckon, sir. I shouldn’t have said anything.” But before Sandy could ask what he meant, the taxi pulled up on the gravel in front of the house. As the driver retrieved his suitcase, Sandy looked up at the imposing three-storey red-brick façade, which seemed to glow golden in the sunlight. Sandy counted six large, multi-paned windows on each storey, hinting at the size of the rooms within. A manicured lawn complete with a fountain lay in front of the house, surrounded by low box hedges, with mature oak trees flanking it. A short flight of steps, with ornamental resting lions on either side, led up to the scarlet-painted front door.
“Good luck, sir. Enjoy your stay.” The taxi driver hovered expectantly, and Sandy dug in his pocket, tipping him the couple of pounds he found. The driver looked disappointed, but it was all Sandy had.
Searching the internet, Sandy had learnt that George Overstrand, a reputed deserter from the British army fighting the Boers in South Africa, had built the house in the first decade of the 20th century after making his fortune in the Kimberley diamond fields. Exactly how George had acquired his fortune remained shrouded in mystery, but it was whispered that he had won his share of a mine in a rigged card game. However, he didn’t enjoy Wychwood for long, dying of syphilis the year after moving in.
George had fathered three sons with two different wives, although rumours suggested there were children in Britain and Africa who shared his genes but not his name. Alfred, the eldest, was killed on the first day of the Somme offensive in 1916, and Arthur, the middle son, died in South Africa during the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1919. The third and youngest son, Edward, then inherited the house. He married a dancer from the Folies-Bergère, almost bankrupted the family through his gambling habit, which led to the loss of his share of the diamond mine, and finally took his own life with one of his beloved Purdey shotguns.
Harold, his only son, saved the house and the family’s fortunes by profiteering before and during the Second World War through a munitions company, which some alleged manufactured guns far more dangerous to those firing them than to the enemy. There were also hints of black-market involvement, though these were never confirmed.
Much to Harold’s displeasure, the family was forced to leave Wychwood during the Second World War, when Winston Churchill requisitioned it as a training base for Special Operations Executive agents parachuted into France. Harold married the widow of a naval officer killed on HMS Hood early in the war. She had inherited a considerable fortune from her late husband, and with her money, Harold restored the house after the war, rebuilding parts damaged by the SOE and adding new cottages to house the staff. Tragically, his wife died in childbirth. Harold was heartbroken by her death and, to his credit, never remarried. He died in 1966 when the Bentley he was driving ran off the road and struck a tree after a dinner at which he had drunk two bottles of claret, several glasses of vintage port, and half a bottle of cognac.
The house passed to his son, another George, a banker who helped the ultra-rich hide their wealth in exotic offshore locations, beyond the prying eyes and hands of the UK tax authorities. His wife tolerated his numerous affairs but finally divorced him after catching him in bed with her sister. The notoriously debauched parties he hosted at Wychwood were often reported in scandalised yet lascivious detail by the UK’s red-top tabloids. The authorities eventually caught up with him, and he was charged and convicted of money laundering, only to be spared a prison cell when he died following a massive stroke.
The couple had a son and a daughter before their divorce; the daughter went to live with her mother, whilst the son, Charles, joined the army, rose to the rank of captain, and served in the First Gulf War with distinction, but received a medical discharge after being wounded in a friendly-fire incident. He became a successful property developer and renovated Wychwood, which had fallen into neglect. He died when, as Master of the local hunt, he was thrown from his horse after whipping it for refusing to jump a fence.
The house passed to his son, Sir Robert Overstrand, the great-great-great-grandson of the original George and the man who brought Sandy to Wychwood.
Two
A cloud obscured the sun for a moment, and a rook cawed nearby, and Sandy couldn’t suppress a shiver. Tired from his journey but excited to be here, he carried his suitcase up the steps to the front door, where two women stood waiting. One was middle-aged, dressed in a plain grey belted dress, her dark hair scraped back into a tight bun, her face free of make-up, and her lips pressed primly together. The other was younger, dressed in a maid’s uniform, complete with a white apron, her long blonde hair braided into a ponytail, and a black velvet bow at the top. In stark contrast to the first woman, she wore bright red lipstick, and Sandy thought she looked beautiful.
The older woman stepped forward and said, “Good morning, Mr Rossi. Please come inside.” She spoke with a soft Scottish burr, yet she gave the impression of not being to be trifled with. He followed her into the entrance hall, the younger woman closing the door behind them. The entrance hall was surprisingly bright and airy, with Oriental rugs laid over flagstones. A large Murano glass vase filled with white arum lilies stood on a long wooden table. Paintings of Chinese flowers brought splashes of colour to the walls, a crystal chandelier hung from the double-height ceiling, and a wooden quarter-turn staircase led upstairs. Sandy thought it was the kind of understated elegance that left no doubt about the wealth behind it. Unused to such surroundings, he felt distinctly out of place.
“Welcome to Wychwood, Mister Rossi,” said the older woman. “My name is Mhairi, the housekeeper, and this is Samantha.” She gestured to the younger woman, who, to Sandy’s astonishment, curtsied to him.
“Thank you,” replied Sandy. “I’m so pleased to be here at last.”
“Sir Robert apologises for his absence, Mister Rossi,” the housekeeper said. “Business has detained him in London, but he says everything is ready for you to begin work in the library.”
“Thank you, Mhairi. Oh, sorry. Is it okay if I call you Mhairi?”
“Of course, Mister Rossi. Samantha will show you to your room. Your lunch will be in the library in half an hour if that suits you.”
He had the impression that it didn't matter if it suited him or not. That was how it was going to be.
“That’s perfect, Mhairi. Thank you.”
Three
Although disappointed not to meet Overstrand, he was eager to begin his work. He picked up his suitcase and followed Samantha up the stairs, unable to help noticing how the material of her dress tightened across her backside with each step. She wore seamed black stockings, and Sandy was sure he caught a glimpse of a suspender clip through the fabric. His face flushed as he remembered wearing something very similar. She looked back at him and caught him staring.
“Almost there, sir,” she said with the hint of a grin.
Embarrassed at being caught out, he reddened and hurried to follow her. She led him along a corridor lined with Impressionist paintings. Samantha noticed him looking. “It was Lady Eleanor’s passion, sir. She loved collecting.”
“She had excellent taste.” He turned to Samantha. “Lady Eleanor was Sir Robert’s wife, right?”
“Yes, sir. She was a lovely woman taken from us far too early.”
“Wasn’t it a skiing accident?”
There was a catch in her voice as she said, “Yes, sir, almost two years ago now. She was an excellent skier, but one day she ventured off-piste in the Rockies alone and was caught in an avalanche. It took several days to recover her body. Sir Robert had planned to be with her, but he had to visit the President at the White House and was due to join her afterwards. I know he blames himself for what happened. He believes he would have stopped her, but it wasn’t his fault. It’s still difficult to believe she’s gone.” She paused and looked away. Sandy thought she was going to cry, but she looked back at him and said, “Sir Robert has put you in her suite. The other guest rooms are closed. Sir Robert hasn’t entertained since Lady Eleanor’s death.”
Samantha opened the door and stepped back to let him in. Sandy hadn’t given much thought to what his accommodation at Wychwood would be like, so he wasn’t prepared for what was to come. As he walked through the door, he shaded his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through the large double window. As his eyes adjusted, he began to take in his surroundings.
An arrangement of blood-red peonies stood in a Japanese porcelain vase on a table in front of the window. An elegant writing desk and chair stood against one wall, with a vast abstract canvas above them that Sandy couldn’t identify but guessed was an original and likely very expensive. An enormous L-shaped leather sofa and chairs surrounded a low coffee table, facing a massive widescreen television mounted on the wall. What looked like hundreds of books filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and sunlight reflecting off a Murano glass chandelier sent shards of light dancing across the room.
“This is the dayroom, sir,” Samantha said. “The bedroom is through here, if you would follow me, sir.”
Hang on, he thought. Did she say dayroom? It was bigger than his whole flat. And there was a bedroom as well? He shook his head to make sure he wasn’t daydreaming. He hurried to catch up with Samantha, who had slipped through a door. He stopped at the doorway, trying to take in the room beyond. A huge double bed with a wooden headboard carved with a dragon’s head faced the window, and a display of white orchids stood on a circular wooden table. A long dressing table with a triptych mirror sat along one wall, with a large black lacquered jewellery box at one end. In front of the window stood a chair and a reading light, with a small table for books. Japanese wallpaper, featuring magnificent black peacocks perched on maple-branch silhouettes, surrounded by smaller birds and flowers, covered the walls. A magnificent woodblock print of Mount Fuji hung over the bed, facing a stunning painting of a pair of red-crowned cranes on the opposite wall.
“Lady Eleanor loved Japan,” Samantha said.
“It’s wonderful,” replied Sandy breathlessly, gazing around the room in wonder. Samantha opened a door and said, “There’s a bathroom through here and a dressing room through the other door over there. Lady Eleanor’s clothes are still in there. Sir Robert hasn’t decided what to do with them yet.” Samantha’s eyes glistened as she added, “The room is just as Lady Eleanor left it,” before lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, I believe it’s Sir Robert’s way of keeping her memory alive, but there will still be plenty of room for your belongings, sir.”
Sandy thought the suite of rooms must take up the entire second-floor wing on one side of the house. Bewildered by it all, he turned to Samantha and said, “Are you sure all this is for me?” He was afraid there had been some dreadful mistake and that they had mistaken him for someone else.
“Yes, sir. Sir Robert’s instructions were that you are to stay in Lady Eleanor’s suite.”
It all seemed a little creepy to Sandy, but he kept the thought to himself. It would only be for a short while, he reasoned, and he was being well paid for his work.
“Oh. Okay, then. It’s lovely, Samantha. By the way, I’m unsure of the protocol here. I’m not used to being called ‘sir’. My name’s Alessandro, but most people call me Sandy.”
“Miss Mhairi likes us to be formal with guests, sir.”
"Uh, okay," he replied. That told me, he thought. Mhairi sounded like a stickler, but it must be a tough job running a house like this. Especially for a man like Overstrand, he reasoned, who would expect the highest standards to be upheld even when he was away. Sandy was a guest here, so he would have to get used to it.
“If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll leave you to unpack. The library is down the stairs and to your left.” She glanced around the room and added wistfully, “It’s lovely to have someone back in Lady Eleanor’s room, sir. She wouldn’t want it left unused. There’s a call button by the side of the bed if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Samantha. I’ll be fine now.”
He feared she might curtsy to him again, but to his relief, she smiled and said, “Very well, sir. I’ll leave you to it and see you later.”
She left, closing the door, and he let out a breath, still not convinced that all this was meant for him. Everything was immaculate, as though Lady Eleanor had stepped out a moment ago, perhaps to go riding or shopping, and would be back soon. But knowing what had happened to her, Sandy saw it more as a shrine. Still, he loved the idea of staying here, even for the short time he expected to be here. He looked around the apartment in wonder, unable to believe his luck. It had the hallmarks of a cultivated and sophisticated woman, and he had the feeling he would have liked Lady Eleanor if he had met her. Suddenly remembering that Mhairi had said lunch would be ready soon, he decided to head straight to the library and unpack his suitcase later.
Four
Following Samantha’s directions, he found his way to the library, which proved a pleasant surprise. Instead of a musty, dark room lined with unread leather-bound books, it was a purpose-built extension at the back of the house, flooded with light from glass roof lanterns and floor-to-ceiling windows, through which he saw well-tended gardens.
Books and magazines about Venice lined the shelves alongside stunning pieces of Murano glass, an exquisite bronze Venetian winged lion, and antique carnival masks. One item caught Sandy’s eye as he scanned the shelves. Tucked among the objects was a small snow globe featuring a delicate model of the Rialto Bridge, which would be blanketed in a flurry of snow when shaken. It looked like the sort you could pick up at any souvenir stall for a few euros, and Sandy wondered what significance it must hold for Overstrand to place it among his other treasures.
A temperature-and humidity-controlled cabinet housed a collection of antique books on Venice, which Sandy knew would prove invaluable to his work. A faded and torn Standard of St Mark, Venice's flag with its golden winged lion on a red field and its distinctive six tails, hung on a wall.
Sandy whistled softly as he took in the three paintings hanging in the room. The first, a brooding study of the Rialto Bridge at twilight, was by Walter Sickert. The second, a watercolour of Santa Maria della Salute against an angry sky, its colours like a three-day-old bruise, was by Turner. The last was a Canaletto, depicting the Grand Canal with the Doge’s Palace and the Campanile di San Marco in the background and worth a small fortune by itself. It was a familiar, almost clichéd subject, but Canaletto had subtly manipulated the viewpoint and perspective to give it a distinctive aspect, with ordinary Venetians going about their everyday business. Gondolas and other boats lent movement to the picture, all beneath the azure blue sky that Sandy loved.
A small wooden box sat on a table, with a key and a pair of white cotton gloves on top. With mounting excitement, he pulled on the gloves and unlocked the box, revealing a small, fragile, leather-bound book. He picked it up and carefully opened it, scarcely able to breathe. The first page was handwritten with the words:
Questo è il diario di Veronica Franco
His pulse quickened, and he turned to the next page.
La Serenissima
15 Giugno 1575
He rocked back in the chair and let out a sigh of delight.
Five
Sandy had first met Sir Robert Overstrand nine months earlier, when he gave a speech at Sandy’s university. He was one of the country's best-known entrepreneurs, having made his first million while still at school by launching an online gaming site. For some reason, his school disapproved and expelled him, but not before he sold the site for a substantial sum.
As he developed other businesses, his slogan, 'Never Stop Breaking Other People’s Rules, ’ led to a book, then a globally syndicated television series, and was emblazoned on mugs and T-shirts around the world. Weirdly, it even appeared on anarchist banners at protests. More success followed, and before long, he became a multimillionaire on his way to becoming a billionaire and one of the youngest to receive a Knighthood for his services to business.
Inevitably, he became an international celebrity, making him a paparazzi target, yet he seemed to revel in the attention. His wife, Lady Eleanor, shunned the limelight, fuelling rumours that his marriage to his childhood sweetheart was rocky. There was talk of a super-injunction to quash at least one story.
Following the death of his wife, Overstrand disappeared from public view, and this was one of his first public appearances since his wife’s death.
The University’s Anglo-Italian society had invited him to speak because Overstrand was an outspoken advocate of the campaign against what he called ‘The Rape of Venice’ by the tourist industry. He often raged against the damage inflicted on the city and the Venice Lagoon by the giant cruise ships that daily deposited thousands of tourists, ‘like termites’, in his words, to overwhelm the city. The campaign had scored a significant victory when the government banned the largest cruise ships from the heart of Venice, but overtourism remained a problem.
Sandy’s family had lived in Venice for generations, but in the chaotic aftermath of the Second World War, his young, newly married great-grandparents, Luca and Isabella, emigrated to England. They settled in London’s Little Italy on the Clerkenwell Road and, like many immigrants before and since, started their own business. They scraped together enough money to open a small coffee bar. Through hard work and long hours, the business prospered, and in time they opened a restaurant and a delicatessen. The businesses eventually passed down to Sandy’s grandparents and then to his parents.
Sandy’s grandmother kept a framed photograph of Isabella on her sideboard, taken just after they opened the coffee bar. It showed her proudly making coffee with their gleaming Gaggia espresso machine, one of the first in London. Every time Sandy visited his nonna, she would point to the picture and, to his embarrassment, tell him he was the spitting image of Isabella, even down to his hair colour. His parents had hoped he would follow them into the family business, but Sandy wanted something different, at least for a while. He could always join them later.
At university, he studied History with Italian, and, in addition to his fluent Italian, he picked up Venetian during a year at the Università Ca' Foscari in Venice. He was now only a few weeks away from completing his PhD on ‘Renaissance Venice and the Silk Road.’
Overstrand’s speech was a fundraiser for a charity he supported, helping workers in Venice whose health had been ruined by industrial pollution. Sandy’s PhD supervisor had a ticket but couldn’t attend, so he passed it on to Sandy. After a glass of warm Frascati and some tasteless finger food in the college library, the vice-chancellor offered a brief welcome and introduced Overstrand.
Sandy listened with rapt attention as Overstrand, speaking without notes, passionately described the critical threats Venice faced from mass tourism, flooding, pollution, corruption, and rising sea levels caused by climate change. Overtourism had turned the city into what he called a Disneyland attraction, placing an intolerable strain on its infrastructure.
The catastrophic 2019 flood showed everyone how vulnerable the city was to rising sea levels. Because the city and the lagoon depend on tidal flow to flush waste from the canals and prevent the lagoon from stagnating, the newly built flood barriers were raised only for the worst surges, leaving minor floods to bring water and waste into the city, and flooding low-lying areas like Piazza San Marco with increasing regularity. Overstrand concluded with a warning that sea levels were rising so quickly that only a more radical solution could avert a catastrophe. He was helping to fund a project to pump seawater into the sand beneath Venice, which would eventually raise the city above flood level.
Overstrand was a charismatic speaker, and Sandy was riveted to his seat by Overstrand’s passionate defence of the city he loved, which sparked in him a desire to help, though he had no idea how. Overstrand stayed to mingle with the audience, and Sandy lingered, hoping to meet him. The crowd parted for a moment, and Sandy seized the chance to approach him. At that moment, Overstrand looked straight at Sandy, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face before he recovered his composure.
Overstrand was more than a head taller than Sandy, and he had to look up as he began to speak. “I hope you don't mind me approaching you, Sir Robert. I wanted to congratulate you and thank you for your speech tonight. It means so much to hear you campaign for Venice. We mustn’t let it die. You’re an inspiration to us all. Please don’t stop. It’s vital, and I’m sure you will make all the difference. I wish I could do something to help.” Sandy stopped to catch his breath, and only then did he notice the broad smile on Overstrand’s face, which made his heart leap. Flustered, he blurted, “Sorry, sorry. I must sound like a star-struck fangirl.” Shit, he thought. Why had he said 'fangirl'? Overstrand must think he’s an idiot.
Overstrand reached out to shake Sandy’s hand. “Not at all. It’s always enjoyable to meet someone who shares my love of Venice.” Overstrand leant forward to look at Sandy’s name tag. “Alessandra Rossi,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Oh, no, no. It should be Alessandro. It sometimes happens.”
Overstrand smiled at Sandy. “An easy mistake to make, I think.”
Sandy blushed as he realised what Overstrand had meant.
“Rossi,“ Overstrand continued. “Very appropriate, I would say.”
“Sorry?” said Sandy, puzzled by the remark, and it took him a few seconds to catch on. “Oh, you mean my hair?” He had put his auburn hair into a half-up bun. If Harry Styles could do it, so could he.
“It suits you,” said Overstrand, and something in his tone made Sandy tingle. Overstrand glanced at his watch and said, “I’m sorry, Alessandro, but I have to dash. Give me your phone number, and we can discuss how you can help.”
Taken by surprise, Sandy somehow remembered his number, and Overstrand tapped it into his phone. “It was delightful to meet you. We can talk more next time.”
Six
Sandy hadn’t expected to hear from Overstrand, assuming it was a polite way to avoid an overexcited fan. He was therefore surprised to receive a text from Overstrand’s PA a few weeks later. He was even more surprised to be invited to lunch at Overstrand’s London Club, and a week later, he walked down Pall Mall in London on his way to meet Sir Robert.
The PA had mentioned the club had a strict dress code. So, for the first time in ages, Sandy wore a jacket and a tie. He fretted over what to do with his hair. He had always worn it long, and he loved how it framed and softened his face. For a long time, he despaired of how wavy it was and tried to straighten it without success. He finally gave up and accepted it as it was. It gave him a somewhat androgynous appearance, and people had mistaken him for a girl a few times—something he found embarrassing, but, if he was honest, also exciting. He thought the half-up, half-down bun would be too bold and the ponytail too casual. Unable to decide, he let it hang loose.
He stopped at the front desk and asked for Overstrand. The porter directed him to the bar, where Sandy spotted him seated at a table, head down, phone in hand. Sandy walked through the bar, self-consciously aware of the curious glances from some of the men. Overstrand glanced up as Sandy approached, surprise crossing his face before he could hide it.
Overstrand stood and smiled as they shook hands, and Sandy tingled at the touch. “Alessandro, it’s so good to see you again. Please sit down. What would you like to drink? I’m having a gin and tonic.” Overstrand’s Yorkshire accent had softened at the edges, but he hadn’t lost it entirely. Sandy thought it added warmth and honesty to the man.
“I’ll have the same, please.” Overstrand waved to a waiter, giving Sandy a moment to study his host.
He was more than a head taller than Sandy, tanned and clean-shaven, with blond hair fashionably unkempt. His blue eyes twinkled, and laughter lines suggested a sense of humour. Although not exactly chiselled, his jaw was still strong, his lips full, and his teeth even and white. A youthful rugby accident had left his nose a little crooked, giving his face a rugged look. He wore an immaculately cut dark-blue suit, a white shirt, and a red silk tie. All this, and a billionaire, too, Sandy thought.
Overstrand turned back to Sandy and smiled, and as he had the first time they met, Sandy’s heart lifted. What was it, Sandy wondered, that made him feel like this? Sure, Overstrand was a very handsome man, but when he smiled like that, it did something to Sandy. It made him feel giddy, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. It was as if Overstrand were smiling just for him.
“I’m delighted to meet you again, Alessandro. I enjoyed our chat the other week and wanted to continue where we left off.”
“I’m sorry for gushing so much last time, Sir Robert,” he said, still embarrassed by the memory. “But I admire what you’re doing for Venice.”
“Don’t worry. We have to mobilise everyone for the cause.”
The waiter arrived with their drinks and said, “Sir Robert, your table is ready.”
Overstrand stood up and said. “Let’s take our drinks through to the dining room and talk more.”
Overstrand nodded to several people as he led Sandy through the dining room to their table. Sandy recognised a government cabinet minister and a Booker Prize-winning author. A well-known actor who had been ogling Sandy stopped Overstrand. As they exchanged a few words, Overstrand frowned at something the actor said. As they moved to their table, a waiter appeared and handed Sandy a menu. Overstrand waved the menu away, and Sandy assumed he knew what he wanted. Sandy scanned the menu anxiously, unsure what to order.
Overstrand saw his hesitation and leant forward. “I apologise, but it’s pretty much all public-school mush here. I can recommend the cottage pie and the rhubarb crumble. That’s what I always have.”
“That sounds fine. I’ll have that too, please.”
“Is a bottle of red OK?” asked Overstrand. “The house claret is perfectly drinkable.”
If Overstrand had set out to impress the already star-struck Sandy, he could not have done it any better. Sandy was charmed and flattered by the attention Overstrand paid him.
Sandy had been through a few unsuccessful experiences with girls in his teens, which confirmed what he had always suspected—he preferred men. He lost his virginity in a Travelodge to a silver-haired older man who had picked him up in a gay bar behind King’s Cross Station and plied Sandy with vodka martinis until he could hardly walk. He never saw the man again and never wanted another vodka martini as long as he lived. His long auburn hair, heart-shaped face, full lips, upturned green eyes, shy smile, and what one date had called his ‘beautiful bubble butt’ guaranteed him many Grindr dates, but most only wanted a one-night stand and a fuck. He quickly discovered he had a submissive nature, liked to take rather than give, and preferred older, more dominant men. He had daddy issues, according to one of his dates, something Sandy hotly denied. Maybe a bit too hotly, as if it had struck a nerve.
Another of his dates had begged him to wear lingerie during sex, and although initially reluctant, Sandy eventually agreed. Just this one time, he told himself. However, the first time Sandy slid a stocking up his leg and felt the caress of filmy knickers on his skin, he was hooked. After Sandy broke up with the man, he continued to wear lingerie, sometimes even beneath his male clothes.
He dated another man for a while, who took Sandy to a fetish club, where he made Sandy dress as a maid, a nurse, and an airline stewardess. On one occasion, the man had collared and leashed him while he watched Sandy have sex with several men. Sandy had found cross-dressing exciting, enjoying how it made him appealing to men and, occasionally, to women. It gave him a sense of power he lacked elsewhere in his life. He did some escort work for a time to help fund his university studies, mainly for married men afraid to come out. However, the sex was so cold and unfulfilling that he abandoned the scene, threw away his female lingerie, and focused entirely on his studies. All he ever desired was someone who would show him genuine love. Therefore, the attention he received from Overstrand felt like rain in a desert to Sandy.
“Why the interest in Venice, Alessandro?” asked Overstrand, breaking into Sandy’s reverie, while the waiter poured their wine.
“My family came from Venice, Sir Robert—”
Overstrand held up his hand. “Alessandro, please. Between us, it’s Robert. The whole Sir Robert thing is useful sometimes, like getting a table last minute at the Ivy, but not between friends.”
Sandy felt warmth blossom in his chest at the thought that Overstrand considered them friends.
“Okay, er, Robert. Most people call me Sandy. They find my name too difficult.”
“I think it’s a lovely name,” Overstrand said. “But why Sandy rather than Sandro? That would be normal, no?”
“At school, they said Sandro was foreign, so they called me Sandy, and it stuck. I quite like it, to be honest.”
Overstrand nodded. “It's a pity. I like Sandro, but from now on it will be Sandy. But please carry on.”
“As I said, my family came from Venice before they moved here. We went back on holiday every year, and I have always loved the city. I spent a year there to complete my degree and learnt to speak Venetian. I want to go back and live there someday.”
Overstrand smiled. “I have a place in San Marco on the Grand Canal. I’d love to show it to you sometime.” Sandy already knew that Overstrand had an apartment in London’s Eaton Square, another in the 16th Arrondissement in Paris, and a brownstone townhouse in New York’s TriBeCa. There was also a ski chalet in Gstaad, a villa on Santorini, and a small island in the Caribbean. Sandy could only wonder what Overstrand’s ‘place’ in San Marco on the Grand Canal would be like. He knew the area well enough to guess it would be impressive. Overstrand interrupted his speculation. “Your thesis is on Renaissance Venice and the Silk Road. Is that right?”
“Only a few thousand more words to write, and then it’s finished.”
“Have you reached any conclusion?”
Sandy paused before replying, hoping he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. “I don’t need to tell you, of all people, that Venice grew wealthy from its trade in spices and goods such as silk, glass, and porcelain from the East along the Silk Road. Venice’s position on the Adriatic, with easy access to the Mediterranean and the rest of Europe, was ideal. Its navy protected its standing against pirates and rivals, while its merchants built a sophisticated banking and transport system. However, less well known is that it was also a cultural hub between Asia and Europe. Ideas and art moved along the Silk Road. Over time, Venetian art and architecture embraced Eastern design styles. You only need to look at the domes of the Basilica di San Marco, a Christian church, to see the influence of Byzantine and Islamic design. The Venetians also extensively collected and preserved many pieces of Islamic art. I’ve discovered many unrecorded examples. It’s such a fascinating topic. There’s so much more to uncover, if I had…”
Sandy saw a look on Overstrand’s face and stopped talking. “I’m sorry. I get wound up like a clockwork toy, and I won’t stop talking until the mechanism runs down.”
Overstrand smiled, “No, it was great, Sandy. I love it when someone is that passionate. It has given me an idea, but we can talk after lunch.”
The waiter arrived with their cottage pie, and Overstrand said, “Buon appetito, Sandy.”
His accent was terrible, but Sandy smiled and replied, “Grazie, altrettanto, Sir… scusa, Robert.”
It felt odd to call him Robert, but it didn’t seem to bother Overstrand, who had the knack of making you feel like the only person who mattered. Sandy wasn’t sure whether it was Overstrand’s charisma, the wine, or both, but he was gazing at him, oblivious to everything else. Overstrand’s voice cut through his thoughts, making him jump.
“And what will you do after your PhD?”
“What?” Sandy snapped back to reality. “Oh, I mean, I don’t know. Take a holiday, perhaps. I want to return to Venice sometime, but I don’t have the money to do that now.”
“Maybe I can help,” said Overstrand. “What would you think about doing some work for me?”
Sandy looked at him in surprise. “Me? What kind of work could I do for you?”
The waiter interrupted them with the dessert. Once they had finished eating, Overstrand leant forward and said quietly, “Can you keep a secret?”
Overstrand had thrown Sandy off balance again, but, now convinced he would crawl across broken glass for the man, he nodded and said, “Of course, if you ask me to.”
”Good, let’s have coffee in the bar, and I’ll share something I think you’ll find interesting.
Seven
Overstrand kept him waiting while they settled at a table in a quiet corner, ordering coffee and brandy for both. “Before anything else,” said Overstrand. “I must ask that what I tell you remains confidential.”
“Yes, of course, Robert.” Sandy would agree to anything to hear what Overstrand had to say. However, before he could speak, Overstrand looked up and scowled as the actor he had spoken to in the restaurant approached their table. Sandy heard Overstrand mutter under his breath, “Dear Lord, deliver me from this man.”
The actor leered at Sandy before turning to Overstrand. “Robbie, I was devastated to hear about Eleanor. My condolences. She was a lovely girl.”
Overstrand nodded his thanks, but his face betrayed his displeasure.
“Tell me, who is your pretty friend? Won’t you introduce me?”
“If you must know, Sebastian, this is Signor Alessandro Rossi from Venice, a guest of mine.” Taking his cue from Overstrand, Sandy stood to shake the actor’s hand.
“Delighted to meet you, Alessandro,” said the actor, not letting go of Sandy’s hand.
Sandy smiled and said something rapidly in Venetian, which he hoped the actor wouldn’t follow, even if he did speak Italian.
“Oh, that sounded so sweet, Alessandro. I do so adore Italy,” simpered the actor, finally letting go of Sandy’s hand. “And Italian boys are so delightful. Robbie, let me know if either you or your charming friend would like tickets for my opening night. I would love to see him again.” He leered at Sandy, then turned to Overstrand and said, with total insincerity, “I mean both of you, of course.”
Overstrand scowled and said, “Sadly, we won’t be able to take you up on your offer, but thank you anyway.” The actor left with a lingering look at Sandy.
“Obnoxious little man,” said Overstrand when he was out of earshot. “Eleanor loathed him, and I want nothing to do with him. Only my mother and Eleanor could call me Robbie, and Eleanor would have hated to hear him call her a girl.” His face clouded at the mention of his wife. “Anyway, he only came across because of you.”
“Me?” said Sandy.
Overstrand smiled. “You must have seen the way he looked at you, surely.”
Sandy blushed furiously. “Um, I mean, yes, no, I thought…”
Overstrand saved his embarrassment by asking, “By the way, what did you say to him? Was that in Venetian, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Mm-hmm. Roughly paraphrased, I told him that if he didn't let go of my hand immediately and leave us alone, I would have my Mafia friends slowly chop him into little pieces while he was still alive, run the pieces through a mincer, and feed the scraps to the fish in the Venice lagoon.”
Overstrand stared at Sandy for a moment, then threw back his head and roared with laughter, drawing glares from some of the other members. “My God, Sandy, that’s perfect. And the little shit didn't have a clue. Eleanor would have loved that.” Sandy grinned back, delighted by the comparison.
After looking around to make sure no one could overhear them, Overstrand lowered his voice and asked, “Tell me, have you come across a woman named Veronica Franco in your research?”
Sandy nodded. “Oh, you mean the Venetian courtesan? 16th century, is that right? I’ve read about her.”
Overstrand nodded. “You’re right, but there was so much more to her than a courtesan. She was also a poet and a remarkable woman for her time. There have always been rumours that she kept a diary of her affairs, but it had vanished for centuries.” Overstrand sipped his brandy, heightening the suspense. “Well, I can tell you it exists because I have found it.”
“How on earth?”
“I can’t say more now, but I have a proposal for you. If you like what I say, I will share the details with you, but only with certain conditions.”
Sandy was intrigued. “Conditions?” he asked.
“For one, you must be prepared to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Are you interested?”
Buzzing from the drink and from Overstrand’s attention, Sandy said, “Oh, yes. I would be extremely interested.” Overstrand smiled at him, and his heart skipped. Why was he reacting like this? Was it simply being in the company of such a powerful man? Or was there something more to explain the attraction?
“I need someone I can trust to translate the diary. I don’t understand Venetian, and I don’t have time to learn it. I won’t let the diary leave Wychwood, my house in Yorkshire, for security reasons, so you’d need to stay and work there. There would be a generous fee and free accommodation at Wychwood. The staff there would take excellent care of you. Oh, and, of course, a translation credit. It will be a sensation when it’s published. How about it, Sandy?”
Sandy didn't hesitate. It sounded like an opportunity too good to pass up.
“Yes,” he exclaimed. “If you think I’m the right person, I’d love to do it. It sounds exciting. Thank you, Robert.” Overwhelmed by the offer and by Overstrand’s charisma, he didn’t think to ask why he’d been singled out.
“Excellent, Sandy. I’m delighted,” said Overstrand. He glanced at his watch. “I have to run now, but my assistant will send you the contract and the NDA. It’s standard, so there’s no need to worry. I look forward to seeing you at Wychwood. My car and driver are outside. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Thanks, Robert. But I need the walk to clear my head. And thank you again for this opportunity.”
“It will be my pleasure, Sandy.” As Overstrand laid a hand on his arm, Sandy caught the scent of Overstrand’s cologne, a masculine blend of citrus, leather, and wood. Sandy closed his eyes for a second as an image of Overstrand wrapping his arms around him flashed through his mind. He opened them just as Overstrand said, “I like what you’ve done with your hair. I prefer it this way.”
Sandy’s face flamed at the comment and at what he had just imagined. He couldn’t look at Overstrand but managed to mumble, “Oh, thank you.”
Overstrand smiled before climbing into the back of the Range Rover waiting outside and said, “See you at Wychwood.”
As he watched the car pull away, Sandy felt bemused by what had just happened. He felt bowled over by Overstrand and the job offer, yet sensed a vulnerability in him, a sadness that needed soothing. Of course, he thought it natural to grieve for his wife, and that only drew Sandy more to him.
It only occurred to Sandy later that Overstrand had known the subject of his thesis, and he was sure he hadn’t told him. It meant Overstrand must have been checking up on him. Not surprising, Sandy thought, for a man in his position. However, he worried about how much Overstrand might have discovered.
The following day, he received the contract and the NDA. The agreement set out the fee, the accommodation details, and a substantial completion bonus. He whistled aloud when he saw the size of the package. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, nor did he want to. He skimmed the NDA, which seemed straightforward enough. In short, everything that happened at Wychwood was confidential. He was forbidden from disclosing anything without Sir Robert’s prior written approval. Even so, it all seemed reasonable to Sandy, so he signed both documents and returned them. He agreed on a start date after his PhD and returned to his thesis with renewed enthusiasm. A few months later, he arrived at Wychwood, nervous but excited to begin.
Eight
Sandy had read only the first few lines of the diary when Mhairi came in with a tray bearing his lunch. He was delighted to see antipasti, a chicken-and-basil pesto salad, fresh fruit, a bottle of water, and a basket of bread rolls. He hadn’t eaten since leaving his flat that morning, and he remembered how hungry he was.
“Thank you, Mhairi. That looks perfect,” said Sandy.
Mhairi laid the tray on the table and said, “When you’re ready, press the bell on the wall, and we will collect the tray. By the way, Sir Robert suggested that, instead of dining alone this evening, you might like to join us for dinner in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Mhairi. I’d be delighted to join you if I’m not imposing.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Chef would like to know if you have allergies or dietary restrictions, Mister Rossi.”
“I'll eat anything, Mhairi.”
She frowned. “Sir Robert’s chef is extremely well respected, Mister Rossi. He brought her here from Italy. I don’t think you will have any complaints.”
He was embarrassed because she had clearly misunderstood him, and he hurriedly said, “Oh, no, I didn’t mean I’ll eat anything, although I will eat anything. Oh, I’ve made it worse, haven't I? I’ll start again. I mean, I don’t have any allergies.”
”We eat at half past seven when Sir Robert is not at Wychwood.” Mhairi said, still sounding a little frosty, “Please come to the kitchen then.”
After she left, Sandy, unsure whether he had made a poor start with Mhairi, pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The accommodation and the people who looked after him exceeded his expectations. Enjoy it while you can, he told himself; it won’t last long. All he had to do, he thought, was fulfil his part of the agreement.
After finishing his lunch, he pressed the bell as Mhairi had asked, and Samantha came to collect the tray. She was beautiful, he thought, as his eyes followed her, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to wear the maid’s uniform. He shook his head, told himself not to be stupid, and got back to his work.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed six. Surprised by how late it was, he stood up, winced at the ache in his back from sitting so long, and stretched. He decided he had made enough progress for the first afternoon and returned the diary to its lockbox. Veronica Franco’s handwriting was tiny and difficult to decipher, and there were many names and places he needed to research. He realised this might be a longer job than he had thought.
He retraced his steps to the bedroom and found that Samantha had unpacked his suitcase and put everything away. Wow, he thought. Is this how the other half lives? More like how the 0.1 per cent live, he corrected himself. He thought he had time to relax after a long day before joining the others for dinner. He lay on the bed, intending to stay awake, but his eyes closed, and he fell asleep.
A knock on the door woke him, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. The knock came again, and he called out, “Hang on.”
Yawning, he opened the door to find Samantha outside. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Allegra says dinner will be in half an hour. I’ve come to turn down the bed.”
He blinked in surprise and said, “You don’t need to do that, Samantha.”
“It’s no bother, sir. I did it for Lady Eleanor every night.” She leaned in and whispered, “By the way, sir, everyone calls me Sam. Only my mother and Miss Mhairi call me Samantha. But please call me Samantha in front of Miss Mhairi.”
“Sam, it is, then.” He yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand. "Sorry, Sam. It’s been a long day,” he said. “Where did you put my stuff?”
Sandy opened the door to the dressing room, and his eyes widened in surprise. It was more like a cavern than a closet. It was about the size of the bedroom, lined with shelves, rails, drawers, a small bench, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror. There were racks and racks of shoes and boots: elegant heels, riding boots, trainers, sandals, and slippers. Designer handbags and unopened bags from London’s top stores were laid out on shelves, and coats, suits, dresses, blouses, sweaters, and exercise gear hung on rails. He pulled out one drawer, which contained nothing but unopened packets of tights and stockings. He found another drawer full of lingerie. He couldn’t resist touching the delicate silks and satins inside the drawer, and a tingle ran through him as his fingers slid across the fabrics. He heard Samantha cough behind him, and he quickly closed the drawer. He had to push such temptations aside. He was here to work.
“It’s impressive, isn’t it, sir?” Samantha said from the doorway. “I’ve turned down the bed, but I couldn't find your nightwear, sir.”
“Sorry. My what, Sam?”
“We always laid out Lady Eleanor’s nightwear on her bed every night. I’ll do that for you.”
Sandy frowned and said, “I’m sure I packed my pyjamas. I thought they were in my suitcase.”
“Don’t worry. I think I can help with that, sir,” Samantha said, flicking through a rail until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a pair of fire-engine-red silk pyjamas.
“I’m sure Sir Robert wouldn’t mind if you borrowed these for your stay. They are just like men’s pyjamas, and they are about your size, sir.”
Before he could move, she held them up against him. “Yes, they will be perfect. Especially with your hair, sir.”
He had worn a headband to keep his hair back all day, but had taken it off, letting it fall to his shoulders. Sandy blushed furiously, his face matching the scarlet of the pyjamas. “No, I can’t possibly wear them. I mean, they were Lady Eleanor’s.”
Samantha shook her head and said, “They are brand new, sir. Lady Eleanor never wore them. See,” she went on, “they still have the labels on them. She loved silk. Go on, see how wonderful it feels.”
She took his hand and held it against the silk. “How lovely is that, sir?” Butterflies fluttered in his tummy when his fingers slid across the soft silk.
“But”, Sandy stuttered, “but what would Sir Robert say?”
“Don’t worry,” whispered Samantha. “He doesn’t have to know. I won’t tell him. It will be our secret.” She winked at him. “I’ll lay them out for you so they will be ready for you when you go to bed.”
As she carried the pyjamas into the bedroom, Sandy stood there, wondering what had just happened. He shrugged. At least they weren’t pink. Anyway, he could always decide what to do when he came to bed.
Nine
He walked down the stairs to find the kitchen. He had forgotten to ask where it was, and he had to try a few doors before he found the right one. One door he opened led to a formal dining room with an enormous table that could seat at least thirty people. Another door led to what he guessed had once been the drawing room, where the ladies would retreat, leaving the men to their cigars and port. Through yet another door lay an entertainment room with a snooker table, two enormous sofas, a bar, and a massive widescreen television mounted on the wall.
He finally found the kitchen at the back of the house. He thought he should knock on the door rather than barge in, and Samantha opened it, now wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
“Welcome, sir,” she said, with a dazzling smile. She was beautiful, he thought.
Mhairi looked over and said, “I think we can be more informal here, Sam. But only here. Anywhere else, it has to be formal. Will that be satisfactory, Mister Rossi?”
Samantha winked at him, and Sandy had to stifle a giggle.
“I think that’s perfect, Mhairi. Everyone calls me Sandy, by the way.”
Allegra emerged from the back of the kitchen, carrying a large dish of lasagne, and placed it on the massive wooden table in the middle of the room, set for the four of them.
“Ciao, Mister Sandy, I am Allegra.”
“Ciao Allegra, sono felice di conoscerti,” he replied with a smile.
She clapped her hands with delight. “Grazie, Mister Sandy.”
Allegra was middle-aged, small and dark. Sandy guessed she came from somewhere in southern Italy. Her dark hair was cut short, like a boy's, but she had warm eyes, was quick to smile, and was very Italian, spending as much time talking with her hands as with her mouth.
Sandy took a mouthful of the food and said, “Allegra, è delizioso. Grazie.”
Allegra beamed with pleasure. “Grazie, Mister Sandy.”
Mhairi poured everyone a glass of wine and said, “Welcome to Wychwood, Sandy. We hope you enjoy being here.”
“Thanks, Mhairi. You’ve all been so welcoming. I feel privileged to be here in your home.”
“Thank you, Sandy. That’s kind of you. We would like you to think Wychwood is your home, too.”
He thought it was a sweet thing to say, and when he took another mouthful of Allegra’s delicious lasagne, he forgot all about it. The conversation flowed between them, and Sandy was soon at ease with the three women. They had all worked for the Overstrands for some time, and their devotion to him was evident. They were the only staff in the house at the moment, but they told him that when Lady Eleanor had been here, there would have been at least two other staff members, with more hired if the Overstrands were entertaining. Gardeners came once a week to maintain the gardens, and Mhairi called in local tradespeople as needed.
Samantha asked Sandy how he had met Sir Robert, and he told them about their chance encounter and how Overstrand had asked him to translate the diary. He admitted he didn’t know why Sir Robert had chosen him for the job, but he had jumped at the chance. He noticed Samantha exchange a sly look with Mhairi, but he thought little of it. However, something was puzzling him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’ve not seen any pictures of Lady Eleanor around the house.”
There was an awkward silence, and he feared he had said something wrong. Mhairi eventually said, “There were pictures of her everywhere in the house before Lady Eleanor passed away. After that, Sir Robert took them all down. He said he couldn’t bear to see them any more. They are in storage, ready to be put back when he wants. We all miss her. She was a lovely woman. We hope Sir Robert meets someone like her to fill the void.”
Sandy nodded. “I think Sir Robert is a wonderful man. I hope he finds someone soon.”
Samantha sniggered before Mhairi shot her a filthy look. “That’s what we all hope, Sandy.”
Sandy thought there would be many women in the world willing to sell their mothers to become the second Lady Overstrand. But he kept the thought to himself.
Ten
After dinner, Sandy offered to help clear up, but Allegra shooed him away. He yawned and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s been quite a day. I’ll have an early night, so I’m fresh to start in the morning. Thank you all. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, everyone.”
He returned to the suite, eager for some sleep, but as he came through the bedroom door, he caught sight of the red pyjamas lying on the bed. He’d forgotten all about them. No, he thought, he couldn’t possibly wear them. He would have to sleep naked, all because he’d forgotten his pyjamas. Which was odd, he thought, because he clearly remembered putting them in his case.
He yawned again and picked up the pyjamas from the bed, fully intending to put them back where they had come from. The silk felt so soft and sensuous under his fingers, reminding him of times he had worn it. As Sandy walked into the closet to hang them back on the rail, a flash of red in the mirror caught his eye. It was enough to make him stop and look, as if the colour had whispered to him. A naughty idea popped into his mind. What harm would it do to see what they looked like? He held the pyjama jacket in front of him, and his heart leaped as he saw his reflection in the mirror, his hair loose and tumbling over the red silk.
Could he? He shook his head. No, he couldn’t. Should he? Samantha had said nobody else would know, and the silk felt so seductive against his skin. What if he tried the top on? Only to see, of course. Then he would put them back on the rail. No harm, no foul.
He pulled his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor before sliding his arms through the sleeves of the pyjama top. The cool, soft silk brushed his skin, and goosebumps erupted on his arms. His fingers fumbled with the buttons until he realised they were on the opposite side from those on his shirt. When he had them done up at last, he looked in the mirror.
Sandy’s heart fluttered when he caught his reflection. The fiery red dazzled his eyes, and the silk flowed like liquid as he moved. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. How could a piece of clothing make him feel like this? It was only silk against skin, yet it tingled where it touched, and the sensation spread through his body.
Sandy picked up the pyjama bottoms and hesitated, his pulse racing as he held them, wondering if he dared to put them on. Somehow, deep down, he already knew he would. He undid his belt, and his jeans and underwear dropped to the floor. He kicked them away, then stepped into the pyjama bottoms. The soft silk sliding up his legs sent shivers of pleasure through his body. He pulled the bottoms around his waist and sighed with delight.
He looked back into the mirror and gasped at what he saw. For a moment, he didn’t recognise his reflection. It was him, but not him. His hair tumbled over his shoulders, and with his legs exposed by the shorts, he looked like a feminine double of himself. The silk seemed to flow, softening his body and making his legs look longer. He loved the way the silk sent tiny ripples of pleasure across his skin whenever it touched him. He struck a couple of poses in the mirror, giggled at how he looked, then yawned, a reminder that he needed some sleep. This was it, he thought. His moment of truth. Should he keep the pyjamas or sleep naked? It wasn’t even a fair contest. He looked at himself once more in the mirror, grinned, and walked out of the closet towards the welcoming bed.
Eleven
At some point in the night, Sandy had kicked off the duvet, and he awoke feeling cold. He groaned when he looked at his phone, only to see it was 2 o’clock. The room was chilly, and he wondered whether the window was open. He tried the bedside lamp, but it wouldn’t come on. He picked up his phone, switched on the torch, and swung his legs out of bed, surprised to see he was wearing red silk pyjamas before his sleepy mind recalled what had happened earlier. He opened the curtains, only to find the window closed. A cold draught down the back of his neck made him shiver again. That’s odd, he thought. Where’s it coming from?
Then he heard someone call his name. He was sure of it. He stood still, head tilted to listen, but there was only silence. He shook his head, thinking that after such a long, tiring day, he must be imagining things. He turned away from the window to go back to bed when he heard it again. This time it was much clearer. Someone had called out his name. It was soft and gentle, but he was sure it had been his name. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and he stood still, straining to listen in the dark. The temperature dropped again, and he grabbed the robe Samantha had left out and wrapped it around himself.
He thought it had come from the dayroom, and he nervously eased the door open, his fight-or-flight reflex firmly on the side of flight. There was only a faint glimmer of moonlight through the window, and as he peered into the room, even with the help of the light from the torch on his phone, he couldn't make out anything. He tried the light switch, but this one didn’t work either. He clicked it a few times, with the same result. Probably a power cut, he thought.
Sandy let out a breath he hadn't realised he’d been holding, and as he breathed in again, he caught the scent of jasmine in the air. Weird, he thought. That wasn't there before. Then he almost jumped out of his skin as he heard someone laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through his body, and he whirled around, trying to locate the source of the sound. But it seemed to be all around him, in the air itself, or maybe even inside his head. It wasn’t a belly laugh, a chortle, or a guffaw; it was light, ethereal, secretive, and mysterious. It sounded more like someone sharing a joke with a lover in bed. Without knowing how, he was sure it was a woman.
His first thought was that it must be Samantha, but that would be ridiculous, he thought. He decided to check the corridor outside to see if anyone was there. He opened the door and looked left and right, but saw no one. As he closed the door, he heard someone softly call his name once more. At least he thought it was his name, though it sounded more like Alessandra. He looked again, but there was no one there. Get a grip, he told himself. You’re in a strange, new place and your mind is playing tricks on you. Just go back to bed and forget it.
He went back to the bedroom and stood on his book, the latest Commissario Brunetti novel by Donna Leon, which was lying on the floor, though he was sure he had left it on the bedside table. He must have knocked it onto the floor when getting out of bed. Still spooked, he got back into bed and lay awake for a while, trying to calm his heart rate so he could fall asleep again. He strained to listen for any more noises, but all he heard was a dog fox barking to its mate somewhere in the darkness. Soon enough, he fell asleep again.
Twelve
Sandy sat on the terrace outside the library, enjoying the last of the evening sun before it dipped below the trees marking the boundary between Wychwood and the farmlands beyond. The sky was bruised with orange and yellow in the setting sun, and he could hear the rooks in the trees calling to each other. At first, it was only caws and screeches, but suddenly, as if he had been tuning a radio and found the right frequency, he could understand what two of the rooks were saying to each other.
“You stole my food.”
“Not my fault. You shouldn’t have dropped it.”
“It’s going to be hot tonight. I can smell it.”
“You’re an idiot. You said it would rain today, and it didn’t.”
“I hope that hawk doesn't come back. He scares me.”
“Don't worry. We’ll chase him away like we did last time.”
“That car nearly killed me today.”
“You're too fat. You should have moved faster.”
Sandy smiled to himself. They sounded like an old married couple.
“There's someone new at the house.”
Oh, Sandy thought, that must be me.
“So what? You’re just nosy.”
“I might go and check him out.”
Sandy must have lost the frequency again, because all he could hear once more was the cawing of the rooks. The light was fading fast as the sun dipped behind the trees, so he stood up, intending to go back into the library when, from the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning his head, he saw a large rook on the ground a few feet away, staring at him. He was surprised by the bird’s lack of concern for his presence. Sandy waved his hands, hoping to scare the bird away, but it hopped back only a few inches, still staring at him, before letting out a few short caws as if it wanted Sandy’s attention. He watched, rooted to the spot, as the rook walked straight past him with the wiggling gait rooks have on the ground. It went a few feet further before turning to look back at Sandy, making clicking noises as if to say, ‘Follow me.’
The bird moved on, and to his surprise, Sandy found himself following it towards the house. It reached the library door, and to Sandy's astonishment, it hopped inside and waited for him to catch up. It threw back its head and cawed again, as if to hurry Sandy along, before continuing deeper into the house. Sandy followed the bird into the drawing room until it stopped in front of the fireplace and turned to look at him.
As he watched, the bird flapped its wings twice and began to grow, and grow, until, before Sandy’s astounded eyes, it morphed into a figure in a hooded black cloak. Sandy wanted to look away, but he couldn’t move and had to watch as the figure slowly raised both hands to pull back the hood. To his horror, he saw his own face emerge from beneath the hood, and then he was falling, falling.
He dragged himself awake, his chest heaving with fright as he struggled to control his breathing. Jesus, he thought, it had been a long time since he’d had a dream as weird as that. Did it mean anything? No, he thought, it was just a dream. That was when his phone began to vibrate on the bedside table.
To be continued
Day Two
One
Sandy sat up in bed and groped for the phone, but missed, knocking it onto the floor instead. He cursed and got out of bed to find it. It had stopped vibrating, but it started again as he picked it up off the floor. Sandy sat on the bed and, without thinking, pressed accept, and nearly fainted when Overstrand’s face appeared on a FaceTime call.
“Good morning, Sandy. How are you? I hope I didn’t wake you.” There was a loud whooshing noise in the background, and Sandy had to strain to hear. “I’m calling from the helicopter,” Overstand had to shout over the engine noise. “I hope you can hear me. I wanted to ask whether you’ve settled in at Wychwood. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there yesterday to welcome you, but I’m tied up with a deal. I hope to get to Wychwood in the next couple of days to see how you’re doing. Are Mhairi and the team up there looking after you?”
“Yes, Robert. They’ve made me feel at home." Sandy noticed a little of the red pyjama top creeping into view on the screen. He quickly moved the phone to hide it and hoped Overstrand hadn’t noticed. “I’ve made a good start on the diary. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Great, Sandy. Good to know. Remember, if you need anything, ask Mhairi. She’ll fix it for you. I mean anything. Are you sure I didn’t wake you? It looks like you’re still in your pyjamas. Sorry, I’ve got to go. We’re landing. See you soon, Sandy.”
The call ended, and Sandy held his head in his hands. Overstrand must have seen the pyjama top. Sandy groaned. He would be dismissed and have to leave after just one day. It would be the fastest hire-and-fire in history, Sandy thought. He fell back on the bed, his face burning with shame, until he remembered something Samantha had said. Lady Eleanor hadn’t worn these pyjamas, and they were brand new. Overstrand might not know about them. He might not even have seen them. Could he bluff it out? Pretend they were his. Samantha said she wouldn’t tell. So it might just work, though he would have to keep wearing them. Oh well, that was no hardship, or so he thought.
Sandy checked the time on his phone. 8:30 already. He really should get moving. Mhairi had said breakfast would be ready for him in the library each morning, and he was hungry. He walked to the bathroom, which was as impressive as the bedroom and dressing room. Twin washbasins, a large claw-foot bath, a bidet, a Japanese-style heated toilet, and a walk-in shower. The Turkish cotton towels were so thick and soft they would put a five-star hotel to shame. Carrara blue-veined marble covered the walls, and underfloor heating kept the floor tiles warm. He grinned to himself, thinking he could easily get used to this.
He stripped off his pyjamas and folded them neatly, meaning to put them back in the drawer later. He searched his washbag for his shower gel but couldn’t find it. Something else he must have forgotten to bring, he thought. He opened the bathroom cabinet and found bottles of shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, and shower gel. He opened the shower gel, and the scent of jasmine filled his nose. It reminded him of summer holidays in Italy, where jasmine grows wild in hedgerows, its fragrance filling the air. That’s curious, he thought; it was the same scent he had smelled the night before when he heard the laughter. He found a shower cap in a drawer and put it on before stepping under the rainforest shower. He poured the gel into his hand and sniffed it. It was feminine, but he liked it, so who would care?
He finished his shower, and as he replaced the gel in the cabinet, he caught sight of the moisturiser. Why not, he thought, and he spread a little on his arms. Oh, wow, he thought. This felt wonderful. Why had he never tried this before? His skin felt smooth and almost glowed. Encouraged, he spread it on his legs, and when he rubbed it onto his chest, his nipples tingled.
Two
He dressed, placed the pyjamas in a drawer so he could wear them again tonight, and went downstairs to the library, where bread rolls, croissants, fruit, cereals, boiled eggs, jams, honey, and a flask of coffee were laid out. Sandy took what he wanted, then rang the bell. Samantha poked her head around the door.
“Good morning, sir. May I take the breakfast away?”
“Morning, Sam. Yes, please, but can you leave the coffee?”
“Of course, sir. Did you sleep well?”
Sandy hesitated before saying. “Sam, I know this might sound odd, but were you in the corridor outside my room last night?”
Samantha looked at him with surprise. “No, sir. Why?”
“Oh, nothing, I guess. I just thought I heard someone last night.”
“It wouldn’t have been me or Mhairi or Allegra. We live in the cottages behind the main house, and there’s nobody else here. What did you hear?”
“I know it sounds a little crazy, but I heard a woman laughing. I got up to look, but there was nobody there.”
“It couldn’t be any of us, sir.” She frowned, then said, “I’ve never seen or heard anything myself, but the locals talk about a ghost here. I don’t mean one of those headless horseman types. They trained secret agents here during the war, and the story goes that an army officer murdered one of the women agents. It was horrible. He raped her and stabbed her to death before hiding her body in the cellar. They caught him and hanged him later, but they say she came back to haunt the house.” She shivered, then brightened and said, “Mind you, the wind can sometimes get very loud, sir. It can sound a bit eerie.”
Sandy nodded. “Okay, Sam. No bother. Thank you.” He was sure there had been no wind the previous night, and he didn't believe in ghosts. Anyway, the murdered woman didn’t sound like the kind of ghost who would laugh. If it had been Samantha, she wasn't going to admit it. If it wasn’t her, what had he heard?
“You smell lovely, sir,” she said. “It was Lady Eleanor’s favourite. It’s perfect for you, too.”
“Oh. I hope nobody minds. It was in the bathroom, and I forgot my shower gel.”
“That’s perfectly okay, sir. Sir Robert said you can use anything and everything in the apartment,” Samantha said, giving him a sideways look. “Anything at all that takes your fancy, that is.”
He thought it was an odd thing to say, but Samantha smiled sweetly at him and said, “If that’s all, sir, I’ll come back with some coffee later.”
Three
Sandy was growing more familiar with Franco’s handwriting and making slow but steady progress. Although he already knew her by reputation, he had researched her thoroughly before coming to Wychwood. She had been a notable figure in Venice at a time when it would have been difficult for a woman to stand out on her own. She wrote poetry, moved among the artists and writers in Venice, and became an influential literary figure in her own right. He had found something she had written that sounded as if it could have been written today.
"When we too are armed and trained, we can convince men that we have hands, feet, and a heart like yours; and although we may be delicate and soft, some men who are delicate are also strong; and others, coarse and harsh, are cowards. Women have not yet realised this, for if they should decide to do so, they would be able to fight you until death; and to prove that I speak the truth, amongst so many women, I will be the first to act, setting an example for them to follow."
He had bought a postcard of her portrait by Tintoretto and propped it up on the table beside his laptop. She looks to her left, gazing at something, or someone, as if trying to suppress a smile. Her auburn hair, cut close to her head, gives her a distinctly tomboyish look, but her lips are pink and full, and her cheeks are rouged. A string of pearls hangs around her neck, and her elegant gown is cut so low that a nipple peeks above the neckline. This was no shy Renaissance maiden, he thought. She looks strong, confident, and sure of herself and her sexuality. The wealthy classes paid her well for her services as a courtesan, and she recorded the details of her clients and affairs in her diary. She may have lived nearly five hundred years ago, yet Sandy felt Veronica would be perfectly at home here and now. He would have liked to have met her.
He had become so engrossed that Mhairi startled him when she brought his lunch. It was a warm, sunny day, and he had opened the garden doors to let in some fresh air.
“Do you want to take lunch outside, Mister Rossi?”
“That's a wonderful idea, Mhairi. Thank you.”
He sat at a table outside, beneath the shade of a parasol, enjoying the sunshine and the clear blue sky. It reminded him of sitting outside Cafe Melograno in Castello on a spring day, before the stifling heat of summer, watching the azure sky paint the perfect backdrop for the shining marble beauty of San Giorgio Maggiore.
High above, he spotted a kestrel hovering lazily, searching for mice or voles in the gardens and the paddock beyond. Disturbed by the unwelcome intruder, the rooks roosting in the trees at the back of the house rose to drive the predator away. Sandy assumed it was the same colony his taxi driver had sworn about. He watched as the birds mobbed the hawk, forcing it to twist and turn to escape until it turned tail and fled. The victorious rooks cartwheeled around, cawing noisily in celebration before returning to their trees.
A question he should have asked earlier began to niggle at him. Why had Overstrand chosen him? Sandy thought he could handle it, but he knew there were others more experienced and better known. Was it simply because he had been in the right place at the right time? He would ask Overstrand later. It wasn’t worth worrying about. He would lie back and enjoy it all.
Four
He had decided to work until five o’clock, and it was only a few minutes before then when his phone pinged with a new message. It wasn't from one of his contacts, so he ignored it. A few seconds later, it happened again. Irritated, he read the message and frowned.
Unknown Number: “Make sure you understand why you are here. It’s not for the diary.”
What the hell did that mean? For a moment, Sandy thought the message was from Overstrand. But that didn’t make sense. Why would he send a message like that? It wasn’t from Overstrand’s number, and as far as he knew, nobody else knew about the diary. Overstrand had repeatedly stressed to him that Sandy was not to mention it to anyone except him.
Another message arrived.
Unknown Number: “Be sure of what you want.”
This is weird, he thought. It must be someone playing a joke. But who? And why?
He typed, “Who is this?” but his finger hovered over the send button. What if this were a scam? Or was someone trying to get information? His curiosity won, so he hit send and waited.
Unknown Number: “Who I am does not matter.”
That was even more mysterious.
Arossi: “What do you want?”
Unknown Number: “To make sure you do the right thing.”
Arossi: “I don’t understand. What is the right thing?”
Unknown Number: “You must decide.”
This is fucking crazy, he thought. It had to be a joke.
Arossi: “Who is this?”
There was no response this time, leaving him to wonder who it could have been. He looked at his phone to check the number, but the messages had disappeared.
He sat for a while, wondering what to do next. The messages had unsettled him, but he had no way to find out who had sent them. Without the messages on his phone, he couldn't even raise the matter with Overstrand. He shrugged. He was finished for the day anyway and had lost his focus, so he put away the diary and headed to his room for a rest before dinner. He would worry about it later.
Five
Samantha came to turn down the bed despite his pleas for her not to. He was sitting on the sofa reading when she looked at him and said, “Your hair is lovely, sir, but it’s got so many tangles. Would you mind if I brushed it? I used to love doing it for Lady Eleanor.”
Startled, he said, “I don’t know, Sam. That isn’t part of your job, I’m sure.”
She pouted at him. “Pretty please, sir. I would enjoy doing it.”
He didn't know whether his hair needed it, but if she wanted to, why not? It couldn’t do any harm. "Uh, okay then, Sam. Thank you.”
“Follow me and sit at the dressing table. It will be easier there.” He followed her into the bedroom, wondering whether he should be doing this. He sat in the chair in front of the dressing table, and Samantha moved behind him. She ran her fingers gently through his hair.
“Mmm, you have lovely hair,” she said. “It’s so thick, and it’s such a pretty colour. I’m jealous.”
Sandy loved the feeling of her fingers running through his hair. Distracted, he could only croak, “That’s crazy, Sam; your hair is beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir.” She paused, catching his eye in the mirror. “Forgive me for saying so, but your hair needs conditioning to look its best. We haven’t got time right now, but tomorrow morning, why don’t you wash your hair, use the conditioner in the bathroom, and I’ll blow-dry it for you?”
He opened his eyes wide and stared at her in the mirror. “Sam, I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Why not? You will look so pretty once I’ve finished.” She caught his eye in the mirror again, and a tingle, like a mild electric shock, ran through him as she held his gaze. “Would you like that, sir? To look pretty?”
What did she just say? She must be joking, surely? He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, and he gulped air like a goldfish, unable to get a word out. Sandy squirmed in his seat, and his face turned bright red in the mirror. “Whaaat? I don’t know. I mean…”
But to his astonishment, he watched his reflection nod in agreement. She stepped from behind him and knelt beside him, her face level with his in the mirror. His heart pounded, but try as he might, he couldn’t break eye contact with her. He had the feeling she was reading his innermost thoughts. Samantha picked up a brush and ran it through his hair. He closed his eyes, letting it take him back to the times his mother had done the same, and he had always loved those moments. Samantha’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“How does that feel, sir?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Mmm, that feels so good. Thank you, Sam, ”
“I enjoyed doing it, sir. I’ll see you in the kitchen for dinner.”
After she left, he wondered why on earth she would say we could make you pretty. He sensed that something had shifted in the last few minutes, but he wasn’t sure what.
Six
Sandy opened the door to the kitchen to find Allegra on her own.
“Bounasera, Allegra. Where are the others?”
“Buonasera, Mister Sandy. Sir Robert call to say he arriving tomorrow. Samantha and Miss Mhairi go to get ready at his apartment. They not long, I think.”
The news that Overstrand would arrive the next day thrilled him. He smiled and said, “Allegra, can I help?”
“Si, grazie, Mister Sandy. I do chicken cacciatore. Can you stir sauce while I do vegetables?”
“Of course, Allegra.” Allegra handed him a spoon, but when he began stirring the sauce, Allegra stopped him.
“Oh, no, Mister Sandy. You get sauce on your clothes.” She handed him an apron. “Put this on.” He didn’t look at it before slipping the straps over his head and tying the strings at the back. Only when he looked down did he notice the frills at the bottom and along the top of the bib. At that moment, Samantha and Mhairi walked into the kitchen. Samantha grinned when she saw him, and Mhairi took one look and said, “No, this won’t do at all.”
Thinking her concern was about him helping Allegra, he said, “No, it’s okay. I offered to help. I don’t mind.” Ignoring him, Mhairi turned him around and, in a rather stern voice, said, “An apron needs to be tied properly, not like this rat’s nest. It must be tied in a proper bow. Samantha, please tie it properly for him.”
Samantha undid the knot and retied the apron strings. He was sure her hands didn’t need to touch his bottom so often. She finished tying the strings and gave his bottom a quick slap out of Mhairi’s sight. He glared at her, but she smiled sweetly back. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Yes, Samantha. Thank you.”
Samantha set the table, and he returned to stirring the sauce. Mhairi came to stand beside him. “Do you cook at home, Sandy?” she said.
“Yes. My Nonna taught me. Living on my own, I get plenty of practice.”
“Do you enjoy living by yourself?” She moved closer, and he could smell her perfume—Coco Chanel Mademoiselle. He remembered it from the summer he had spent working in the beauty hall of a department store.
“I have no choice, Mhairi, living on my own.”
“Such a pity. I would have thought some man would have snapped you up.”
He looked at her in shock. “What?”
Mhairi laid her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us.” He stared at her, and she took the spoon from his hand, saying, “I think you should take the apron off now. Allegra is ready to serve.”
Sandy didn't hide his sexuality, but he didn't broadcast it either. He had no idea how Mhairi knew. With a sinking feeling, he guessed that if Mhairi knew, Overstrand must too. But he had hired him anyway, suggesting he wasn't that worried about it. Sandy couldn’t do anything about it, so he decided not to let it spoil his stay at Wychwood. He would be leaving soon anyway, once he finished the translation.
At dinner, they all talked about Overstrand’s arrival the next day, and Mhairi said he was a generous and fair employer, but that Lady Eleanor’s death had hit him hard. They thought he was regaining some of his zest recently. Sandy was careful not to ask too many questions, but he wanted to find out much more about Overstrand.
Seven
Back in his room, he opened the drawer where he had placed the red pyjamas this morning, only to find them gone. He looked around and saw that Samantha had laid out a fresh set of nightwear on the bed. Unlike the red pyjama set, which might just have passed for a man’s, this set was exquisitely feminine. The silk camisole top was a beautiful coral-pink, with delicate lace edging, spaghetti straps, and a pair of tiny matching shorts. Samantha must be joking, he thought. He could never wear these. But as he stared down at the flimsy scraps of silk, he thought they looked so sweet, and his resolve melted like snow in the sun. Touching them couldn’t do any harm, he thought. Just to see how they would feel, of course.
Taking a deep breath, he bent to touch them. As his fingers brushed the silk, he shivered and closed his eyes in delight. The silk was cool and smooth under his touch, and any lingering reluctance vanished. He quickly removed his clothes and stepped into the shorts, easing them up his legs and sighing as the silk brushed his skin. They fit snugly around his waist, holding and caressing him in a sensual embrace.
He picked up the top and pulled it over his head and shoulders. He fiddled with the straps to straighten them before turning to look in the mirror, and he almost swooned at his reflection. Someone else was looking back at him. A girl with a shy, confused smile and auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders onto bright pink silk pyjamas stared back at him from the mirror.
Eight
Stepping from the gondola that had brought him to one of the many palazzos lining the Canal Grande, Sandy climbed the steps to the front door, flares illuminating the path. A liveried servant bowed, taking the cloak that had kept him warm on this chilly evening, and he nervously touched the double string of pearls at his neck. The servant signalled for him to enter a magnificent ballroom lit by hundreds of candles. The elites of Venice would be present tonight, and even the Doge himself might attend. Laughter and chatter filled the room from the revellers, and because tonight was Carnevale, their faces were hidden behind elaborate masks, some beautiful, some grotesque. Women in elegant ball gowns and men in frock coats, wigs, and hose danced gracefully to music played by a string quartet on a balcony. Through the windows, he caught a glimpse of the Basilica Santa Maria della Salute in the distance as gondoliers crossed the canal to deliver their masked passengers.
A man in a frock coat, a golden mask, and a tricorn hat appeared and bowed before him. He bent one knee behind the other and curtsied to the man, who took his hand and led him into the midst of the dancers. They danced around the room, and he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, dressed in a dazzling ball gown, his hair piled high on his head, and his face covered by a cat mask. Another man cut in to dance with him, then another, and many more until he was dizzy. Each wore a different mask, and he could only wonder who lay behind them.
The music changed, and a faster, heavier beat filled the air. Men and women embraced all around him, and he heard giggling as hands burrowed beneath clothing, followed by moans when fingers found their targets. The dancing had ceased, and couples were mounting each other on the floor, on the tops of tables, against walls, or bent over the backs of chairs, their elegant clothing dishevelled or discarded, as wild cries of passion filled the room. Men were on top of women, women on men, women on women, and men on men, their bodies twisting and writhing together.
Hands pressed down on his bare shoulders from behind, and he dropped to his knees, looking up to see a man wearing a Scaramouche mask standing over him. He could see only the man’s blue eyes through the mask, but he was sure he had seen them before. The music had stopped, and all he could hear were shrieks, groans, and cries of lust and desire. Sandy licked his lips in anticipation as the man unfastened his britches and unseen hands guided his head towards the man’s groin.
Sandy jerked awake to find he had kicked off the sheets and was lying spread-eagled on the bed, the silk cool against his hot skin. He lay still for a moment, breathless, reliving what had happened. It must be because of the diary, he thought. It had all been so vivid, so real, as if he had truly become Veronica Franco. He lay awake, replaying the dream, until, just before dawn, he fell back asleep.
To be continued
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
One
“Good morning, sir.” Samantha stood at the foot of the bed and cocked her head to one side. “Mmm, I was right. That colour really suits you.”
She had knocked on the door and walked straight in without waiting for an answer. Sandy had kicked off the duvet again during the night and vainly tried to cover himself. The nightgown had wrapped itself around him, revealing his knickers.
“Sam,” he wailed, “Can I have some privacy, please?”
She ignored him and stood with her hands on her hips as he yanked the hem of the nightgown down. He looked up at her, and the events of his dream rushed back into his mind, leaving his face burning.
“Are you okay, sir?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. “You look a little flushed.”
He couldn’t look her in the eye and turned away, mortified by the memories of the dream and by how much it had excited him. He tried to change the subject, “Sam, shouldn’t you wait before coming in after you’ve knocked?”
“Er, no. The knock is to let you know I’m coming in. Duh.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s what you used to do with Lady Eleanor.”
“Of course, sir. I wouldn’t treat you any differently.” She smiled sweetly.
He yawned and stretched. There was an audible crack from his back. He had spent too much time sitting in the library. “Oww! I need a massage or some exercise.”
Samantha grinned wickedly. “If you want a massage, I could speak to Miss Mhairi. She often gave Lady Eleanor a massage. She would love to get her hands on you.”
Two thoughts flashed into Sandy’s mind at the same time. After what happened in his dream, the idea of Mhairi getting her hands on him made him blush even harder and made him instinctively clench his buttocks, while the thought of Mhairi giving Lady Eleanor a massage led Sandy to wonder exactly what had gone on at Wychwood.
Samantha eyed him curiously before saying, “Or there’s a swimming pool here you can use.”
“Mm-hmm, no offence to Mhairi, Sam, but I would prefer a swim. Are you sure it would be okay?”
“Yes, of course. Go through the library doors, turn left, and it’s through the gap in the hedge. There are towels in the pool cabin.”
He frowned. “I didn’t bring anything to swim in.”
“You could go skinny-dipping, sir. Nobody can see you from the house.”
He looked horrified. “No. No, I couldn’t do that, Sam.”
“Wait, give me a minute, sir.” She disappeared into the dressing room, and he could hear her say, “No, no, yes, maybe, no, yes.” He had a sudden premonition of what she was doing, his heart skipping a beat. She emerged from the dressing room with an armful of colourful swimwear. She held up a one-piece swimsuit. “This is lovely, but not for you, I think.” She muttered something under her breath.
Sandy thought she had said, ‘At least, not yet.’
“What did you say?” Sandy asked,
“Nothing, sir. How about these?” She laid three bikinis on the bed. “Of course, you don't need the tops.” She looked down at his groin and smirked. “But the bottoms will be fine for you.” She paused for a beat, then added with a sweet smile, “Unless you want to wear the tops as well?”
He ignored her and said, “Sam, I couldn’t wear these.” His voice trailed off as he wondered what it would be like to wear them.
“Why not?” she said. “They are brand new and still have their labels. Look.” She pushed one under his nose so he could read the label. “Try this one on for size,” she said, forcing it into his hands. Sandy looked down at the scrap of material, thinking it wouldn't be so different from his usual Speedos. He swallowed, then walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
After dropping his trousers and underwear, he hesitated for a moment before stepping into the bikini brief and sliding it up his legs. The briefs were cut high at the waist and back, with a small strip of material in between, and they revealed an alarming amount of his buttocks. He shivered with delight as the bikini pulled tight around him, and let out a sigh as the material pulled between his legs. The style and vivid tropical pattern could not be mistaken for Speedos, but they held his admittedly small bulge so well that he almost looked flat down there. He twisted to see himself from the back in the mirror, and he liked the way the bikini made his backside look even rounder. Pretty good, he told himself.
The door opened, and Samantha looked in. He squealed, “Sam! Some privacy, please.”
Ignoring him, she glanced down and said, “Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, you need to do some gardening down there.” Following her gaze, Sandy looked down and, to his horror, saw a ridge of pubic hair poking over the top of the bikini.
“There’s a lady razor in the cabinet and some cream. You should do your armpits as well while you’re at it.” She grinned, “Or I can do it for you if you want.”
If she thought he would let her near his privates with a razor, she had to think again.
“Thank you, Sam, I can manage,” he said, rather primly.
He shut the door, thinking, yet again, that he would have to talk to Samantha about her behaviour. However, she did have a point. He found the razor and cream, and fifteen minutes later, he was baby-bare.
Sam had laid out a cover-up that matched the bikini, together with a pair of gold-coloured slip-on sandals. He hesitated, biting his lip. Should he? Dare he? Yet again, his resistance crumbled as he touched the cover-up. He slipped it on, feeling it glide sensuously across his skin. Only when he checked the mirror did he realise the cover-up was sheer, not completely opaque, and that the outline of the bikini was visible through it. Oh well, he thought, nobody’s going to see me.
The sandals had a small heel, which he found awkward at first, but he soon got used to wearing them. Sam had also left a swimming cap in the same shade of gold as the sandals. He always wore one when he went swimming. Sandy hesitated, suddenly unsure whether he could go out dressed like this, but his back twinged, and the idea of a swim was too strong to worry too much. And surely the bikini would do for now.
He walked carefully down the stairs, praying he wouldn’t bump into Mhairi. He dreaded to think what her reaction would be, but true to his luck, he had reached the door leading to the library when he heard.
“Good morning, Mister Rossi.”
He froze, his heart pounding, and turned to face Mhairi, his face bright red.
“I’m sorry, Mhairi. I wanted to go for a swim, and Samantha said it would be all right to borrow…” His voice faltered as she looked him up and down, her expression inscrutable. “I’ll go back and change. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have worn these.”
“No, you don't need to do that, Mister Rossi. I think you look delightful in that outfit. Please go ahead and enjoy your swim.”
Sandy stared at her in astonishment, and he managed to stammer in reply. “Oh, oh. Thank you, Mhairi.”
She turned to go before stopping and saying, “By the way, we’ve had a problem with our washing machine. It’s broken, and we can't get your washing out. The engineer should be here today, but I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, thanks, Mhairi.”
Two
Confused by her response, Sandy made his way to the pool, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened. The pool was sheltered from view by tall, dense hedging, and in one corner stood a magnificent oak tree. He hung his cover-up in the pool cabin before stepping out cautiously, looking around, not expecting to see anyone, though he wanted to be sure. He blew out his cheeks in relief, as the only spectators were the local rooks, screeching and cawing from their rookery. Even so, Sandy had an uneasy feeling he was being watched. He looked up to see a large rook perched on the cabin roof. He tried to shoo it away, but it paid no attention and stared down at him. He gave up and looked around.
Next to the cabin stood what looked like a fully equipped outdoor kitchen and bar, with tables set out beneath a roof that extended from the cabin. Sunbeds and umbrellas lined the pool edges. Overstrand obviously liked to entertain out here. In the corner, Sandy noticed a hot tub under a cover. Might be fun to try it sometime, he thought.
After pulling on a pair of goggles he found in the cabin, he slipped into the cool water. He swam gentle lengths for half an hour, enjoying the water flowing around him and letting the exercise ease the cricks in his back. Only when he reached the end of the pool near the cabin did he hear a man’s voice say, “Sorry, Miss. I didn't think anyone would be using the pool.”
Sandy almost fainted with shock. At the edge of the pool stood a good-looking young man in shorts and a tight white T-shirt that emphasised his well-developed torso. “I’m here to clean the pool, miss. I do it at this time every week.”
Shit, Sandy thought. Had he just called him miss? The man was looking at him, waiting for a reply. He must have mistaken Sandy for a girl because of the gold swim cap and the goggles. What should he do? He couldn’t stay in the pool while the man cleaned it. Fortunately, he was at the deep end, so only his head was visible. He smiled and, in as sweet a voice as he could manage, said, “Would you give me a few minutes? I don’t have a top on. I’ll get out and let you carry on.”
The young man blushed scarlet. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss. I’ll wait outside the hedge so you can get out.”
“Thank you so much. What’s your name?”
“Adam, miss.”
“Thanks, Adam.” As Adam slipped through the gap in the hedge, Sandy scrambled out of the pool, his heart thumping. He hurriedly dried himself with a towel, then pulled on his cover-up and sandals. Sneaking a peek outside to check the coast was clear, he walked out of the cabin, through the gap in the hedge, and straight into Adam. “Sorry, miss,” Adam said, grinning. Flustered, Sandy went red, lowered his eyes, and mumbled, “All yours, Adam.”
“Thanks, Miss. And sorry again.”
Sandy thought he heard a soft whistle from behind as he hurried back to the house, where he bumped into Samantha.
“Sam, why didn't you warn me the pool guy was going to be there?”
She grinned. “You met Adam, then? He’s a real studmuffin, don't you think?”
Sandy almost stamped his foot. “Not the point, Sam. He thought I was a girl. He called me Miss.”
She arched an eyebrow and looked Sandy up and down. “Are you surprised, sir? Looking like that?”Three
Taken aback for a moment, Sandy stared at her before bursting into laughter. “No, I guess not.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I know for a fact that Adam is gay,” Samantha said, smirking.
“Oh, well, in that case, it’s all fine then,” Sandy said sarcastically, but Samantha ignored it.
“I bet he liked what he saw,” she muttered, loud enough for Sandy to hear.
Sandy had thought Adam extremely attractive, but he wasn’t going to tell Samantha. But, he thought to himself, he might find himself by the swimming pool again next week.
A frown crossed Samantha’s face. “I have some bad news, sir. The engineer can't get here until tomorrow to fix the washing machine.”
“Is that a problem, Sam?”
“Only that all your clothes are still in there.”
Sandy stared at her. “All of them?”
“Yes. We didn't know this would happen to the washing machine. Sorry, sir.”
“Damn. What can I do?” He had an uneasy feeling about what was coming as a slow smile spread across Samantha’s face. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You can help me. Can’t I borrow something from Sir Robert?”
She regarded him like you might a slightly slow child. “Yes, you could, if you want to look like a scarecrow. He is, what, over six feet tall? And you are?”
“Okay, okay,” Sandy grumbled. “You’ve made your point. What do you suggest?”
With a broad grin, she said, “Follow me, sir, and we’ll find something for you to wear.”
Sandy had a sinking feeling as Samantha led the way up the stairs, leaving him to trail after her. He wondered whether she was wiggling more than usual on purpose. She stopped and turned around, catching him staring. “Do you like the view?”
He went scarlet and mumbled something, and she grinned at him before turning back and climbing the rest of the stairs. Once inside the bedroom, Samantha disappeared into the dressing room, and Sandy went to the bathroom to take off the wet bikini. He took a quick shower and, once more, used the jasmine-scented shower gel, whose fragrance he now adored. There was a knock on the door, and Samantha walked in. Shocked, he quickly covered his genitals with his hands. “Sam, please! Is there nowhere private here?”
“I just wanted to know if you were going to be much longer. I have work to do, but I’ve left some things for you on your bed. You’ll love them. I have to go now, but don't forget to moisturise.” She closed the door, but he heard her giggle outside. Only later did he wonder how she knew he used moisturiser.
Four
Back in the bedroom after his shower, and yes, he had used the moisturiser, he found Samantha had laid out a white shirt, the collar embroidered with tiny pink roses, a fuchsia-pink cardigan, and a pair of black trousers. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the black lace knickers half-hidden beneath the shirt.
He felt giddy, staring down at them. They were almost begging him to try them on. He wrestled with himself for a moment before his willpower evaporated like rain from a puddle in the midday sun. He picked them up with trembling fingers and read the label, Aubade. He pointed his toes and slipped one foot, then the other, into the knickers before pulling them up his legs. His eyes closed as the lace kissed his legs, then settled around his hips. He smoothed them over his backside, and he almost fainted as the soft lace caressed his skin.
It would be fine, he thought. Nobody would see them under a pair of trousers, and he couldn't bear to take them off because they made him feel so, well, there’s no other word for it, feminine. Before he could change his mind, he put on the trousers, momentarily confused before he found the zip at the side, not the front. They were a tight fit, ending just above his ankles.
He pulled on the shirt and buttoned it as fast as his shaking fingers would allow, then picked up the cardigan, which turned out to be the softest cashmere. He held it up in front of him and examined his reflection in the mirror. It felt so luxurious and looked so pretty that he didn't hesitate any longer and slid his arms into the sleeves. On the floor was a pair of pink slingbacks, mirroring the colour of the cardigan. Sandy sat on the edge of the bed, holding them in his hands, his tummy fluttering with excitement. He swallowed a couple of times before slipping his feet into them and standing up. The kitten heel was higher than the sandals he had worn earlier, and it had been a while since he had worn heels. He took a few steps and wobbled a bit, but after a few more, he was confident he could manage them.
Standing before the mirror, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and peered through his fingers at his reflection. He would never forget that moment. Gone was the nerdy boy with hair in a ponytail. In his place stood someone he almost recognised. Someone pretty and feminine. Someone with glowing auburn hair, a crisp white blouse and a cardigan giving a soft, feminine look. The trousers tapered at the bottom, making his legs look longer, and they hugged his backside, shaping and emphasising it. He watched his smile widen in the mirror.
He heard a knock on the door, and a few seconds later, Samantha’s head appeared around the bedroom door.
“Oh my, sir. You look divine. I knew that would be the right look for daytime.” Sandy had left the cardigan unbuttoned, but Samantha tutted and fastened the top button, leaving the blouse collar to show over the cardigan. “Mm-hmm, that's better. It looks much more chic that way.”
Sandy turned to her, his eyes sparkling. “Do you think so? Nobody will mind if I wear this, will they?”
“Of course not. We’re all girls here, after all.” But before he could correct her, Samantha carried on, “I've got an idea for something that will set it all off.” She opened the jewellery box on the dressing table and took something out.
“Turn around and close your eyes,” she said, then fastened something around his neck. He opened his eyes to find a double strand of large, brilliant white pearls around his neck. He was stunned for a moment. “Oh, my,” was all he managed to say.
“You look quite the secretary in that outfit, sir.” She said as she fluffed his hair. “There, that's perfect now.”
He fingered the string of pearls, trying to decide if they were fake or real. Samantha must have read his mind. “Before you ask, they are real.”
“Sam, are you really sure I should wear this?” His voice was trembling a little.
”Of course, you look wonderful.”
“No. I mean, is it okay if I wear all this?”
“I told you. You can use anything from here. Now come on. Your breakfast will be waiting, and then you can get to work.” She patted his backside and said, “Get a move on. We’ve all got work to do.”Five
Taking a deep breath, he followed Samantha carefully down the stairs, nervous in his slingbacks. He was anxious about how Mhairi would react to what he was wearing. He need not have worried. Mhairi met them both at the bottom of the stairs.
“Good morning, Mr Rossi. I apologise for the issue with the washing machine. They should fix it later today. I see Samantha has looked after you in the meantime. You look charming, if I may say so. Breakfast is in the library, and I will bring you lunch later. Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”
“Oh, yes, Mhairi. I would love to join you.” Relieved by her reaction, he let out the breath he had been holding with a sigh.
“Of course. I will tell Allegra.”
“Oh, one thing, Mhairi. Do you know when Sir Robert will come back to Wychwood?”
“I’m afraid not. We sometimes only get a few hours' notice of his arrival. I will ask his PA and let you know.”
He sat in the library, picking at his breakfast, pondering Mhairi’s reaction. He was wearing clothes and jewellery that had belonged to Lady Eleanor. Yet she had behaved as if everything were as it should be. He guessed that Samantha wouldn’t be doing anything that Mhairi would disapprove of.
It got him to wonder about their relationship. The young, cheeky Samantha and the older, dour Mhairi seemed an unlikely couple. However, he had seen enough gay relationships to know that age difference doesn’t always matter. Mhairi was the dominant one. That was clear. The power dynamic in the house seemed to reinforce it. Mhairi was the boss, and Samantha deferred to her. It hit him that although he was the guest here, the dynamic between him and Samantha had somehow reversed, and he had become deferential to her.
It had started innocently enough when Samantha had suggested he wear Lady Eleanor’s red silk pair. But after the first night, he had gone along with everything she had suggested. To be fair, she never insisted. Instead, she put an idea into his head, and he would eventually go along with it. It was as if she knew he would accept before he did. He could and should have called a stop to it at any point. But he had chosen to go along with everything. Deep down, he knew why. He was enjoying it all too much to stop. Our most secret desires lead us into temptation, and who among us is strong enough to resist?Six
Focused on the diary, Sandy soon forgot what he was wearing, although he got an occasional reminder when he felt the pearls brush his neck. Veronica’s diary was revealing more and more of her life. Like her mother before her, she was what the Venetians called an ‘Honest Courtesan’. She was an escort who derived her position from her refinement and cultural prowess. It was no surprise that Veronica’s clients were from the intellectual and political elites of Venetian society. She recorded names and dates, even the fees she would charge, which were paid to her mother as her go-between.
The most intriguing parts of the diary lay in her views on her clients. She noted down their gossip as well as their sexual preferences. She even had a code for their performance in bed. Her clients might not have liked to see how she marked them.
He worked through lunch and another divine salad, and around mid-afternoon, he needed a stretch. Taking a bottle of water, he wandered through the walled garden at the rear of the house, following a path past borders filled with drifts of bright flowers and shrubs until he found a rose garden with an ornate fountain surrounded by a small lawn. He sat for a while on a bench in the sunshine, watching as a large rook pecked at the grass for worms.
The warm sun and the scent from the roses combined to make him drowsy. His eyes slowly closed, and he nodded off. When he opened them, the bird had perched on the arm of the bench, looking straight at him. The bird’s feathers shimmered with iridescent colours in the sunlight, and its pale green eyes held his gaze. They stared at each other for a few minutes, and Sandy had the uncomfortable feeling that the creature was studying him. The bird cawed three times and, with one last look at Sandy, flew up into the nearby trees. On his way back to the house, a thought struck him. He knew young rooks have blue eyes that turn brown when they mature. But do they ever have green eyes?
Back in the library, he sat at the desk and noticed the lid of his laptop was raised. Strange, he thought. He was sure he had closed it when he left. He pressed a key to wake the computer, and was surprised when a photograph appeared on the screen. It was blurry and taken at night, but it was clear enough for Sandy to make out a man and a woman embracing. Where had the photograph come from? He had never seen it before and had no idea why it had appeared on his screen. He zoomed in on the man as tightly as possible before it became too fuzzy. It was difficult to be certain because the man was facing away from the camera, and Sandy could see only a small part of his profile, but it slowly dawned on him that the man looked a lot like Overstrand.
He sat back in surprise. He zoomed in again, this time on the woman. The man had his arms around the woman, and she was clearer in the picture, but something didn't quite add up. He frowned and looked more closely. He recoiled in surprise when it clicked that it was a man and not a woman. Sure, it was a small, slender man with long hair, but Sandy was certain. It was a man.
What the fuck? Where had this come from? Could this be Overstrand? Sandy looked again, and he was even more convinced it was Overstrand. Could he be gay? Or maybe bi? Sandy’s heart raced at the thought.
Seven
He had googled Overstrand before meeting him at his club, but this time he did it with a fresh eye. He could find nothing salacious or gossipy about his sex life, at least on the mainstream media pages. There was a hint of something on an Italian website specialising in muckraking stories. Someone claimed he had ”been fucked in a gay brothel in Venice by a man who said he was Sir Overstrand." It sounded far-fetched, but Sandy recalled the rumour about the super-injunction Overstrand had taken out. Was this what it was about? He was sure the rich and powerful could get negative stories quashed.
Could the photo be fake? But even if it was, why would anyone send it to him? He checked his emails and social media accounts, and there was no sign anyone had sent him anything. Somebody must have put it on his laptop. He pressed the call button, and a few minutes later, Mhairi appeared.
“What can I do for you, Mister Rossi?” She asked with her usual calm demeanour.
“Mhairi, have you or Samantha touched my laptop?” It came out more aggressively than he had meant, and Mhairi bristled. “Certainly not, Mister Rossi. I can assure you that we would never do such a thing. Why do you think we would have touched it?”
“The lid was open when I came back from my walk.” He realised it sounded lame, but he couldn’t show her the photograph.
“Could it be you left it up accidentally?” It was clear she thought he was being a prima donna.
He shook his head. “And has anyone else been to the house today?”
“No, nobody, Mister Rossi. Is there something wrong?”
“No, it’s nothing. You’re right, of course. I must be mistaken. I was worried someone had been tampering with my translation. I overreacted, and I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that you or Samantha had done anything wrong. That was never my intention. Please accept my apologies. ”
“No apologies are necessary, Mister Rossi,” she said rather stiffly. “Shall we see you at dinner?” He wasn’t sure whether his grovelling apology had mollified her. He shivered as he remembered the dream had shown him the cost of getting on the wrong side of her. But that had been just a dream, hadn’t it?
“Yes, of course. I’d be delighted. Thank you.” He replied.
Sandy was still thinking about what had happened when the clock struck six. He wanted to rest before dinner, so he went back to the apartment, still puzzled by the photograph. It was yet another one of the weird things that had happened since his arrival. Just a series of unrelated events, he reasoned to himself. But he had a nagging feeling there was more to it.
He saw that Samantha had turned down the bed and left more clothes out on it. He guessed he should change out of the clothes he had worn all day, ready for the evening. She had left a white T-shirt and a pair of red linen trousers. He breathed a sigh of relief. That won't be too bad, he thought.
He was running late, so he hurried to undress, carefully hanging his day clothes before taking a shower. Samantha had left out fresh underwear, and he quickly put on the blouse and trousers. The cropped, wide-legged trousers ended halfway down his shin and were tied with a bow at the front, in an undeniably feminine style. The t-shirt was tight, with a scoop neck and cap sleeves. Not too bad, he thought. But when he pulled the t-shirt over his head, there was a gap between the trousers and the t-shirt, leaving his tummy bare. Shit, he thought. I can’t go down to dinner like this. There must be something I can wear instead.
He tried to open the dressing room door, but it wouldn’t budge. For the first time, he noticed a lock on the door. He rattled the handle in frustration as he realised Samantha had locked it. She must have done it deliberately, he thought, so he would have to wear this. He’d tell her tomorrow to stop these games. He checked himself in the mirror, and despite his anger, he felt a thrill as he saw how he looked. He decided he had little choice but to brazen it out. Still furious with Samantha, he headed down to the kitchen.Eight
Allegra clapped her hands when she saw Sandy. “Oh, bella, Mister Sandy.”
He blushed and said, “Grazie, Allegra.”
He caught Samantha’s eye and glared at her, but she just smiled sweetly back at him, which only made him madder. More unexpectedly, Mhairi smiled as well, a first for her in Sandy’s experience. He had expected to feel awkward and embarrassed, but nobody seemed to pay any attention, and he quickly joined in the chatter around the table.
Allegra had made tortelli with brown butter and sage, a green salad, and a vanilla panna cotta. He thought he might never eat so well again. He had even relaxed enough not to want to murder Samantha for her prank. When they had finished the meal, cleared the dishes, and sat with a cup of Allegra’s wonderful coffee, Sandy asked, “Are there any stories about Wychwood? Sam told me about the woman’s murder during the war, but are there any other strange events that happened here? My taxi driver said that local people tell stories about the house.” Allegra crossed herself at the mention of the murdered woman.
“There have always been stories about this place,” Mhairi replied. “It has a dark reputation. One story says it was a place of execution, and another says it was the site of a plague pit. I don’t know if either is true, but the locals tend to be wary of the place. They call the river you cross on the way to the house the Dead River. Of course, the house itself isn't that old, but I believe the builders unearthed some ancient graves while digging the foundations. A few of the bodies were buried face down. I understand they thought it would stop the dead from coming back to life.” Allegra crossed herself again. “The remains were reinterred in a nearby churchyard. The locals at the time were up in arms, I believe. Disturbing the dead and all that.”
“What about the parties Sir Robert’s grandfather held here? They were notorious, I heard.” Sandy said.
Mhairi frowned. “Before my time, Sandy, but aye, they were wild by all accounts. Sir Robert’s predecessors were a strange bunch. He seems to be the first of his line to be straightforward.”
Sandy almost missed the look that passed between Samantha and Mhairi. He wondered what it was all about.
“And what about Wychwood, the name I mean?” Sandy asked. “Isn’t that something to do with witches?”
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s from a tree called the wych elm. They were all around here once, which is why it's called Wychwood. Dutch elm disease killed them. The drive was once lined with them, but they all had to be removed.” He remembered the mounds of earth along the drive. “Why do you ask?” she said, looking puzzled.
“I’m just curious about the house and its history.” He yawned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep too well last night. I think I’ll have an early night, if nobody minds.” He turned to Allegra. “I tortellini erano deliziosi, grazie, Allegra.”
He returned to his bedroom to find a new nightdress on the bed. It was a shocking scarlet, short and virtually transparent. Sandy swallowed, held it up at arm’s length, and thought it looked way too short, but he didn't hesitate even for a heartbeat. He undressed as fast as he could and pulled the nightie over his head, settling the thin straps on his shoulders. There were two small triangles of lace at the bodice, and he could see his nipples through the lace as he looked down. As he had suspected, it was extremely short, falling only to the top of his thighs, and he eagerly pulled on a skimpy pair of knickers, equally sheer.
Sandy had always thought his legs were one of his better features, but the tiny nightdress made them look longer and somehow more shapely. When he looked in the mirror, he almost fainted. The nightie was completely see-through, his cock clearly visible in the knickers, and he felt himself stiffen with excitement. One hand went to his nipple, and the other stroked his cock under the nightdress. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Overstrand’s hands and fingers on his body. His cock stiffened even more, and Sandy edged himself, staving off the moment when his knees would shake and his cock twitch, before he spurted into his hand. He opened his eyes, looked down at what was in his hand, and slowly brought it up to his mouth and licked the palm of his hand with his tongue. Oh, God, he thought. If only that were Overstrand’s.
This was his moment of crisis, his tipping point. Should he stick or twist? Stay as he was, an academic, closeted and lonely, or take a wild gamble on the unknown? To hell with it, he thought. He couldn’t go back. He had gone too far to turn back. He had to keep moving forward, towards what he didn’t know, only that his life would change forever. Nine
Overstrand stepped out of the shower, towelling his hair dry, with another towel knotted around his waist. Sandy watched a grin spread across Overstrand’s face as he caught sight of him lying on the bed. Sandy had covered himself with a sheet and threw it aside, revealing the minuscule nightdress and knickers he was wearing. He watched Overstrand’s eyes widen as he slid the knickers slowly down his legs and kicked them away. Sandy felt his pulse quicken and his heart race as Overstrand bent over the bed to kiss him with the taste of toothpaste on his lips and the scent of his cologne making Sandy hunger for him.
Overstrand untied the towel, letting it drop to the floor, and Sandy licked his lips at the sight of Overstrand’s stiffening cock before wrapping his arms around his neck, pulling Overstrand urgently down on top of him for a kiss. Sandy's head reeled, and his body quivered as Overstrand’s tongue slipped between his lips. He reached one hand down to take hold of Overstrand's cock, which twitched in his fingers and made Overstrand kiss him even more fiercely. Eventually, Overstrand broke the kiss and pushed up Sandy's flimsy nightdress with his hands, before lapping a nipple with his tongue like a cat, before sucking it into his mouth and nipping it with his teeth, making Sandy close his eyes and arch his back, moaning aloud with delight. Overstrand repeated the action on the other nipple, making sparks flash and flicker behind Sandy’s eyelids.
Sandy wriggled the nightdress off over his head, and Overstrand gently pushed Sandy’s head back to lick and kiss his throat. Sandy shivered as he felt Overstrand’s soft breath on his neck, and his skin flamed with heat at each kiss. Sandy moaned again; only this time it was guttural, animalistic, and primitive, coming from deep within him. Aching for Overstrand to kiss him, Sandy pulled him down onto his lips and snaked his tongue into Overstrand’s mouth. They fenced with their tongues for a while before Sandy nipped Overstrand’s bottom lip with his teeth, making him rear up. Overstrand stroked his fingers slowly down Sandy’s back to cup his buttocks, pulling their bodies closer together. Sandy felt something stiff pressing into his groin and reached down to wrap his fingers around Overstrand’s cock; it was hard and hot to his touch, and Sandy was desperate to taste it in his mouth.
Somehow, he managed to flip Overstrand onto his back and slowly kiss his way down Overstrand’s chest, tweaking his nipples on the way, until his chin bumped into Overstrand’s cock, making him giggle. It wasn't the biggest cock Sandy had experienced, but it was a beautiful shape, thick, uncut, and with a slight curve to the left, erupting from a bush of thick pubic hair. He licked up and down the shaft from root to head, relishing its heat and hardness against his tongue.
Unable to resist any longer, he wrapped his lips around the head, rolling back the foreskin and letting his tongue swirl around the soft mushroom head, producing a grunt from Overstrand. He looked up to see him staring down at him, eyes narrowed with pleasure. Still looking straight at him, Sandy pushed Overstrand’s cock flat against his stomach and flicked his tongue like a snake tasting the air against the sensitive spot where the head meets the shaft, rewarding him with another grunt from Overstrand. Encouraged, he slipped his lips over the head once more, savouring the taste of it on his tongue before taking it deeper and deeper into his mouth until he gagged and had to let it slip out. He took a deep breath and plunged his mouth over it once more, this time taking its full length inside. Overstrand’s hands were on the back of his head, holding it in place as Sandy moved up and down in time to an ancient rhythm playing in his head.
Overstrand’s cock twitched, and Sandy, guessing he must be close to climaxing, let it slip from his mouth, and with an agility he didn't know he had, he straddled Overstrand’s chest so that he could look down at his face. His little cock was stiff, and taking a deep breath, he let it brush against Overstrand’s lips. Overstrand looked up as he gently blew across the tip, making Sandy suck in through his teeth, then kissed it and drew it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. Sandy let out the breath he had been holding, slid backwards, and raised himself on his knees before reaching back to find Overstrand’s cock, placing it against his waiting hole. Sandy gently lowered himself onto it, letting it slip in a little way before raising himself again, deeper and deeper each time, until finally he pushed down hard and forced it past his resistance, closing his eyes and hissing with the pain, before he relaxed and the pleasure began. He raised himself slowly, relishing every inch of Overstrand’s cock sliding out before impaling himself again, again and again. Overstrand thrust his hips up as Sandy plunged back down on him, their bodies smashing together as sweat trickled down Sandy’s face and back as he bounced up and down. One savage thrust made Sandy arch his back and throw back his head in ecstasy as if every nerve ending in his body had fired at once.
“Fuuuccckkk”, he screamed, and his eyes rolled up into his head. He lost all control as Overstrand’s cock filled him again and again, deeper and deeper each time, and he wanted Overstrand to fuck him like this forever.
Overstrand took over and, still inside Sandy, rolled them both over on the bed until he was on top. There was a hunger inside Sandy that he hadn’t felt for a long time. His desire for Overstrand blocked out everything. Sandy wanted, needed, to feel Overstrand inside him. He wrapped his legs around Overstrand's back, locking him in place as he thrust savagely into Sandy, making him grunt and sending wave after wave of hormones coursing through his body. Sandy felt he was being split open with each thrust, and his grunts became louder and louder as Overstrand kept driving harder and harder into him. One massive thrust moved him so far up the bed that his head hit the headboard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sandy shouted, feeling Overstrand grow bigger and bigger inside, and Sandy knew he was ready to come. Sandy, driven by the hormones flooding his body, arched his back and closed his eyes, desperate to feel the final explosive thrusts.
Instead, Sandy heard a loud caw, caw, caw and snapped open his eyes to see the flapping wings and piercing green eye of a massive rook that was impaling him. Sandy screamed.
He jerked awake, desperately gulping air, his heart beating so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. Was it really possible to die of fright in your sleep? He sat bolt upright to look around, anxiously trying to reassure himself that it had only been a dream. Covered in sweat and with his mind scrambled by the dream, he flopped back onto the bed, and it took him a long time to calm down again.
It was the fourth night in a row at Wychwood that he had had such a vivid dream. Nightmare, more like, he thought. Part of it wasn’t hard to understand. Sure, Sandy had a massive crush on Overstrand, but the rook had been terrifying. Whatever it meant, he didn’t want to understand it. He couldn’t remember having so many wild dreams before. Was it something about Wychwood? Or was his imagination running away with him? Whatever was causing it, he wanted a good night's sleep without being scared to death by a dream.
One
Sandy awoke to the racket of a lawnmower beneath his window, followed by the ear-shredding shriek of a leaf blower. Mhairi had said the gardeners came once a week, and as he pulled his pillow over his head, he would tell Overstrand that he could earn another fortune by inventing silent garden machinery.
He checked the time on his phone. Seven o’clock. He groaned; there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he decided to shower and make an early start on the diary. He stretched out and felt the nightdress slide across his skin. It felt so decadent as he slid his hands under the nightdress and rubbed his nipples, making him close his eyes in delight. He squeezed them harder and moaned out loud.
“Having fun?” A voice said. Startled, he jerked open his eyes to find Samantha looking down on him.
“God, Sam. You nearly gave me a coronary.” He covered his crotch with his hands, which made Samantha squeal with laughter. He blustered, “You can’t just barge in like that.”
“Oh, don’t be such a pussy,” she said. “Come on, stop playing with yourself and have a shower. It’s a busy day today, and I have work to do.”
Sandy emerged from the shower, nervous but more than a little excited about what Samantha had planned for him. He eyed the pair of filmy white knickers resting on top of the bed. Kiki De Montparnasse, he read on the label as he turned them over in his fingers, the soft lace making him shiver. He shook off his bathrobe and slipped one leg, then the other, into the knickers and pulled them slowly up his legs, until they settled around him with the gentlest of caresses.
There were two other items of clothing on the bed: a white silk top and a pair of white trousers. The top was skimpy, with thin straps that crossed over behind, two rows of ruffles across the bodice and arms, leaving his shoulders bare. The amount of skin he was showing left him feeling exposed, and the wide-legged linen trousers gave him the hint of a waist. Sandy looked at his reflection in the mirror and gave a low whistle. The top was very feminine, and he was glad he had shaved his armpits, because they would be clearly visible. He fluffed up his hair and turned sideways, bending one knee forward and putting his weight on the other knee, watching the trousers shape his bum as one hand instinctively went to his hip. He obviously had nothing to cover up, but he narrowed his eyes and pushed out his chest, trying to imagine what he would look like with breasts.
The click of a camera startled him, and he whirled around to see Samantha holding a phone, obviously having taken a picture of him in mid pose.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Sandy yelled at her.
“Oh, keep your knickers on. I’m just taking a pic to show you how cute you look in that outfit.”
“You should have asked me first,” he complained.
“And would you have said yes?”
“Maybe. If you had asked nicely.”
She pulled a face. “Meaning no. Anyway, I’ve done it now. You look so sweet. See.”
She stood next to him and showed Sandy the picture. It was a shot of his reflection in the mirror, as he posed with his knee bent and his hand on his hip.
“So pretty. Don’t you think?” Sam whispered to him.
Sandy’s head was spinning. The photograph showed a smiling woman, posing happily in the mirror, her auburn hair tumbling down onto her bare shoulders, the ruffles on the silk top, and the white trousers conspiring to paint a picture of sweet femininity. He felt his face redden as he stared at the photograph, and Samantha slipped her arm around his waist. She squeezed him gently and whispered, “You look gorgeous, Sandy. Good enough to eat.”
He felt tears forming in his eyes, and he ducked his head away so Samantha wouldn’t see. She knew what he was doing and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on, babe. We aren’t finished yet.”
She led him to the dressing table and made him sit down. “Close your eyes.” He squeezed them shut, his pulse racing as he wondered what she was doing. She moved behind him, fastening something around his neck. “You can open your eyes now.” He looked in the mirror and gasped to see a gold heart-shaped pendant sparkling with diamonds hanging from a delicate gold chain around his neck.
“Oh my God, Sam. It’s beautiful, but I can’t wear it.”
“Why not? It looks perfect on you.”
“First, it's Lady Eleanor’s, and second, it must be far too expensive.”
He moved his head and watched the pendant glint and flash in the light. He thought it looked stunning, and he looked at Samantha, who smiled and whispered, “She would prefer somebody to wear it, not let it sit in a box.” Samantha’s face appeared next to his in the mirror, and she whispered, “It’s by Cartier and worth a small fortune.”
“Sam, in that case, I can’t wear it.” He put his hands behind his neck, trying to undo the clasp. Samantha slapped his hand to stop him before giggling and saying, “I’ll tell you a secret. It’s a copy. The original is in the safe with all the rest of Lady Eleanor’s best jewellery. Sir Robert had copies made.”
Sandy saw her eyes glisten. He whispered, “You were close to her, weren’t you?”
She nodded, and tears glistened in her eyes. “Yes, she had the most beautiful soul of anyone I have ever known. She was compassionate, gentle, and generous to everyone, and she would always help if you needed anything.” She sniffled, and Sandy laid his hand on hers and squeezed.
“I’m sorry she’s gone, Sam. I would have loved to have met her.”
“Thank you, sir. I think she would have liked you as well.” Samantha smiled and, looking him in the eye, said, “You are just like her.”
“What was she like, Sam? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, I don’t mind. Lady Eleanor was a lovely woman. She was beautiful on the outside and inside. She was warm and generous to everyone she met.” Samantha grimaced. ”Well, maybe there were one or two people she didn’t like, but not that many.”
“I think I met one. A slimy little actor I met at lunch with Sir Robert,” said Sandy.
“Oh, him.” Sam almost spat the words. “Lady Eleanor despised him, but people like him were few and far between. She was private, kept out of the limelight, and was content for Sir Robert to keep her from that, but she was involved with a lot of charity work behind the scenes and made sure that Sir Robert donated to them.”
“How did they meet, Sam?”
“At school. Eleanor was born near Lindisfarne in Northumbria, but her family moved near here when she was still a baby. He went to an all-boys’ private school, and she attended a nearby girls' school. They met at a dance between the two schools, and after that, they became inseparable. Sir Robert’s father wasn’t too pleased. He thought Eleanor wasn’t good enough for his son. He threatened to disinherit Robert, but that made him more determined than ever to be with Eleanor. When Sir Robert made his own money, they were married, and he didn't invite his father. He died not long after that, breaking his neck when he fell from his horse after whipping it. Served him right, if you ask me. Did you know all the Overstrands are buried in a private graveyard over by the trees where the rooks live? A bit creepy if you ask me.”
She furrowed her brow before saying, “It turned out Sir Robert was unable to have children, but secretly, I think he wasn’t too upset. He’d had a difficult relationship with his father, and he may have thought it would run in the family. But Lady Eleanor was heartbroken. She had wanted a big family.”
“That must have been a difficult time for them,” he said.
“Yes, it was. I think that was the closest Sir Robert and Lady Eleanor came to separating.” Samantha replied.
Something about the way she said it made him think it might not have been the only time they had a problem.
“Thank you, Sam,” said Sandy, and he squeezed her hand again.
She smiled. “Come on, sir. We both have work to do.”
“Sam, isn’t it time you stopped calling me sir? It makes me feel so old. Call me Sandy, please.”
She giggled and said, “Okay, Sandy. But not in front of Mhairi.”
“Okay, Sam.”
“I have one more surprise, Sandy. Close your eyes. When I say now, walk forward a few paces.” He shut his eyes, and when she said, “Now!” he walked forward into a mist of jasmine. His eyes popped open, and Samantha stood there with a perfume spray in her hand.
“It’s the best way to apply perfume,” she said. “It’s Bulgari Jasmin Noir.”
“Oh, it’s lovely, Sam. Is it what Lady Eleanor wore?”
“It was her favourite.” Samantha sprayed a little on his wrists and said, “Now rub your wrists together. There, that’s perfect.”
A wave of affection flooded through Sandy, and before she could move, he hugged Samantha. “Thank you, Sam. You’re a wonderful friend.”
Two
After breakfast, Sandy worked on the translation for a couple of hours, then got stuck on a passage he couldn’t make sense of. He decided to go for a walk to clear his mind and remembered Samantha talking about the family burial plot. Intrigued, he walked through the gardens towards the gate that led into the paddock beyond. He pushed it open and found himself much closer to the trees than he had expected. The burial plot lay between the walled garden and the copse where the rooks roosted. It appeared well-tended, with the grass cut short and small trees and low conifers softening the view. Sandy found a gate in the iron railings that surrounded the plot, and it opened easily on well-oiled hinges.
The plot was larger than Sandy had imagined, divided into distinct areas for each Overstrand generation. Sandy began with the first George Overstrand, whose area was by far the most elaborate. A large statue of an angel, looking skyward and carrying a limp body, stood guard over four gravestones: one for George and three others for one of his wives and two of his sons. Sandy wondered whether the angel was meant to be carrying George to heaven, but if only half the stories about him were true, George would have a hard time convincing St Peter to let him in. More gloomily, Sandy thought it foreshadowed the death of George’s son on the first day of the Somme, whose body, like so many of the boys who were slaughtered like cattle that warm July morning, was never found.
The areas for the Overstrands that followed George became less and less grandiose, but Sandy couldn't tell whether it was through cost or changing tastes. He finally came to the area for Sir Robert, in which stood a single, simple grey granite headstone marking Lady Eleanor’s resting place. On the headstone, picked out in gold lettering, was an inscription.
Beloved Wife & Daughter
Lady Eleanor Alexandra Overstrand
Her middle name surprised him. Alexandra, he knew, like his own name, originated with Alexander the Great. Just a coincidence, he thought, yet again he felt the tug of connection between them. There was a space left beneath her name, and Sandy assumed it was meant for Sir Robert when he passed. For the first time, it occurred to him that if Sir Robert didn’t have children, there would be no next generation of Overstrands at Wychwood.
There was a line of script at the bottom of the stone, and he read it aloud: ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion.’ He recognised it as a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas. Was it in the hope that they would reunite after death?
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he had the feeling someone was watching him. He looked around, but there was nobody there. From above his head, a single caw came from the trees, and he looked up to see a large rook perched on a low branch. As Sandy watched, the bird lifted its head and cawed three times, and he had the uncanny feeling it was talking to him.
“Bloody rooks, they should all be shot,” The words of the taxi driver flashed into his mind. The man couldn't be more wrong, Sandy thought. They were intelligent, and the ones around Wychwood seemed to Sandy like part of the house. He wondered if it was the same individual he had seen in the garden the day before, but it was too far away for him to see the colour of its eyes.
Sandy felt a shiver run down his back. For all its neatness, the burial plot had turned out to be a depressing place, and he wanted to get back to the house and the vitality of Veronica’s life. He carefully closed the gate as he left and walked back towards Wychwood, but he had the uneasy feeling he was still being observed. He turned around to look, but he could see nothing, not even the bird.
Three
He returned to the library, and to his surprise, the meaning of the passage he had struggled with earlier was crystal clear. How had he not seen it before? He supposed the walk must have cleared his mind. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the rook on the branch and the feeling that it was talking to him. He shook his head. That's crazy, he thought, and went back to the diary with renewed energy.
Lunch came and went, and he was making steady progress. The more he translated, the more he felt he was getting into Franco’s mind. He would have liked her if he had lived at the same time. No, that’s wrong, he realised with a start; he would have liked to have been her.
Samantha had left a change of clothes in the bedroom for Sandy when he had finished working on the diary for the day. He was puzzled by what he saw. Holding it up, it looked like a one-piece with a blouse and shorts combined. It looked short, but if he tried it on and didn't like it, he could always find something else, he thought. The outfit was undoubtedly pretty, decorated with autumn flowers and leaves in soft pastel colours. The top was a blouse with a pointed collar and wide, exaggerated sleeves. The attached shorts were loose and flared, and the whole outfit was cinched at the waist and finished with a fabric belt tied in a bow.
He looked in the mirror and gasped. The shorts flared from the waist and looked for all the world like a skirt, ending at the top of his thighs and leaving his legs completely bare. There was no way he was going to wear this, he thought. What was Samantha thinking?
He checked, and she’d played the same trick as yesterday by locking the door to the dressing room. He was frustrated and angry with Samantha and felt like screaming, crying, or doing both. The only option he had was to go downstairs and confront Samantha and to make her find him something less revealing to wear. He slipped his feet into a pair of strappy sandals Samantha had left and made his way down the stairs. The sandals had the highest heels he had worn here, and he wobbled a bit, but he had worn higher heels before, albeit a good while ago, and he soon adjusted. He reached the door to the kitchen and pushed it open far enough to allow him to poke his head around the edge, while keeping the rest of him hidden. The three women were sitting at the table, presumably waiting for him.
“Sam,” he hissed. “Come here.”
Samantha looked up, shrugged her shoulders and mouthed, “What?”
“Come here, please.” He pleaded with her.
She frowned, but stood up and walked to the door. Mhairi and Allegra glanced over at him, but went back to chatting to each other.
“What do you want? And why are you hiding behind the door?” Samantha asked. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door.
“Steady, tiger.” She looked him up and down. “Wow, you look super cute.”
“Are you mad? I can’t wear this.”
She looked confused. “Why not? It’s perfect for you.”
Sandy gestured at his legs. “It’s too short, and it looks like I’m wearing a skirt.”
“Firstly, it's not a skirt. How many holes are there for your legs? Two, in case you didn’t notice when you put it on. Skirts have one. Secondly, there are millions of girls out there who wouldn’t hesitate to sell their grannies for legs like yours. Your legs are to die for, and you should show them off. Don’t go all coy on me.”
“But it’s so short,” he whimpered, though he had felt a flash of pride at what she had said about his legs.
She grabbed his arm and said, “Do you trust me, Sandy?”
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded his head. Although he wasn’t entirely sure that was the truth.
“Good. Then stop being a wimp, and come and join us for dinner.”
Sandy still hesitated until Samantha yanked him through the door into the kitchen. He blushed furiously but let Samantha pull him along. Mhairi and Allegra looked up as he staggered into the room. Allegra’s face broke into a broad smile, and she said, “Oh, belle gambe, Miss Sandy. Oh, I mean lovely legs.”
Sandy’s face was burning, but he mumbled, “Grazie, Allegra.”
He saw Mhairi watching him, but as usual, he couldn't tell what she was thinking. Without breaking eye contact, she said, “You look lovely, Sandy. Come and sit beside me.” She pulled out the chair beside her. To Sandy, it sounded like a command, not a request, and he meekly walked over to sit beside her. He knew it was another sign of his submissive nature, and he hated it, yet he always found himself giving in.
Allegra and Samantha were cooking dinner, leaving Sandy and Mhairi alone at the table. “How are you settling in, Sandy? Do you have everything you need?”
Sandy nodded, not quite able to find his voice. She really did intimidate him, he thought, and his mind suddenly filled with what had happened in the dream.
“Is there anything else we can do for you? Anything. You just have to ask.” For a moment, he wondered if there was a hidden meaning behind her question. No, he was being paranoid; she was asking to make sure he was happy, as a good housekeeper should.
“Um, no, thank you, Mhairi,” he said, breathing rather more heavily than he should have. “I think I have everything I need.”
“And how are you finding life at Wychwood? It was such a shame that the washing machine ruined all your clothes. I mean, are you happy with what we have been able to rustle up for you to replace them? I have to say you do look lovely in what you have been wearing.”
Sandy felt his face redden at her words. “Oh, yes, Mhairi. I’m thankful for what I’ve been able to wear, but I wish I could get some new clothes of my own.” Liar, liar, he thought to himself, but he wouldn’t let her know that.
“I’m afraid they won't be able to repair the bridge for a few days yet. It was in a worse condition than anyone knew. The builders will put up a temporary bridge in the next few days. Until then, I’m afraid you will have to continue putting up with what we have here.” She paused and looked him straight in the eye. “But I don't believe you find that a hardship, do you, Sandy?”
He felt like a rabbit hypnotised by a Cobra, as she held his gaze, challenging him to disagree. Sandy stared at her, transfixed, unable to break away. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. “Er, no, I mean, yes. I’m sure that will be fine, thank you, Mhairi.” His face was burning, and he was sure she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I’m glad, Sandy. We want to make sure you’re properly taken care of. Sir Robert was insistent that we should cater for all your needs.”
“Really?” Sandy squeaked. “That was kind of him.”
“Aye. Sir Robert holds you in high regard. He was very insistent. Even your personal needs, he said.” Mhairi’s voice was soft and hypnotic. “Do you have any personal needs that we can take care of, Sandy?”
Sandy’s mouth dropped open. Jesus, what was she saying? He began to hyperventilate, the edges of his vision started to darken, and he thought he was about to faint. Mhairi’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, and his mind began to drift. It was at that moment that he felt a hand on his leg, jerking him back to life. He looked down to see Mhairi’s fingers squeezing his thigh as she leaned close and whispered in his ear, “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know, Sandy.”
At that moment, Allegra and Samantha put the food on the table, and Mhairi’s hand slipped away from his leg, unseen under the table. Sandy sat there stunned. What the hell had just happened?
“Sandy!” Samantha’s voice made him jump.
“What? Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you want Parmesan on your ragu?”
“Oh, yes, please. Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“Uh, what? Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”
He glanced at Mhairi, who was talking with Allegra, and began to wonder if he had imagined the whole thing. After all, it wouldn't have been the strangest thing to have happened since he had been at Wychwood. He ate his food in silence, trying to process what had just happened, if anything had happened, that is, before excusing himself, telling the others he had a headache and wanted an early night.
Once back in the apartment, he opened the window, hoping fresh air would clear his head. However, the air had felt heavy all evening, carrying the threat of a storm brewing to the west, from where Sandy could hear a distant drumbeat of thunder. Deciding to read something to settle his mind, he scanned the books on the shelves in the dayroom. He found English and French classics, contemporary women's fiction, English translations of Japanese novels, art books, and, most intriguingly, a collection of erotica. He skim-read the spines, following them with his finger: The Story Of O, Lolita, Lady Chatterley, Fanny Hill, Belle du Jour, Delta of Venus, Fingersmith, Tropic Of Cancer, The Kama Sutra, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, Myra Breckinridge, Orlando, and a good many others.
It seemed Lady Eleanor had enjoyed an adventurous sexual imagination. He picked out Orlando, a favourite of his, and read a few pages, but found himself having to go back and reread them when he couldn’t remember what he had read. He sighed in exasperation. He came back to what Mhairi meant when she said that Overstrand thought highly of him. That sounded nice enough, but then Overstrand had told her that they should cater for Sandy’s personal needs. What the hell did that mean?
He took a deep breath. Okay, calm down, he told himself. You’re overthinking this. Overstrand meant personal needs, like needing medicine or having a faddy diet, something like that. Even as he thought it, he realised how silly that sounded. And then there was Mhairi’s hand on his leg. It was all so confusing.
The storm seemed to have passed them by, as he could no longer hear the sound of thunder. It was still oppressively hot, so he decided to take a cold shower to cool down. When he came back, he found Samantha had laid out a short pink silk nightdress with delicate lace edging, which he thought would look divine, but even that would be too hot, so he decided to sleep naked.
Four
Sleep proved elusive. Sandy was used to the sounds of a city at night: traffic on the street, people laughing or singing on their way home from the pub, the distant drone of an aircraft, the siren of an emergency vehicle, and the rattle of trains in the distance. The silence at Wychwood was disturbing. The only sounds were the creaks and groans any old house makes at night, until a fox barked close to the house, and an owl hooted somewhere in the distance, hoping to attract a mate. But there was no response. Sandy grimaced to himself, for he knew that feeling only too well.
He must have drifted off to sleep because a loud clap of thunder jerked him awake. The storm must have doubled back and was now overhead. Even as a young child, Sandy hadn’t been afraid of thunderstorms. He would lie awake at the sound of the approaching storm and then be thrilled by its climax as the thunder rolled over his parents’ house and the lightning flashed behind his bedroom curtains before the rain arrived to scrub the air clean.
He switched on the light just as the first heavy drops of rain thudded against the window. A flash of lightning ripped through the dark, and thunder crashed overhead almost at once. Knowing he would not get back to sleep, he got out of bed, wrapped a robe around himself, dragged a chair to the window, and watched the lightning flash across the night sky over the trees. As he watched, lightning struck a tree in a shower of sparks, and it caught fire like a gigantic candle. It was one of the trees where the rooks roosted, and he thought he could sense the terror the birds must be feeling.
A clap of thunder so loud it made him jump rattled the window, and the light in the room flickered once, then came back on. It flickered again before plunging the room into darkness. It must be a power cut, he thought. He wondered whether the house had a generator or whether he should begin searching for candles, like a heroine in a Gothic novel. The light stayed off, and the room was lit only by the occasional flash of lightning.
At that moment, in a lull between the thunder, a floorboard creaked inside the room, and Sandy whipped his head around to see where the sound had come from, but he could see nothing in the darkness. The temperature in the room had dropped. He was scared now, goosebumps erupting on his skin. He felt a puff of air kiss his face as if someone had moved nearby in the darkness, and fear squeezed his heart like a fist until he thought it would burst.
It’s your imagination, he told himself, over and over. There can’t be anything there. There just can’t be. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out something, anything, but between the lightning flashes, there wasn’t even a glimmer. Then a sound rippled through the darkness, like a bird flapping its wings, stirring the air around him. He felt around, arms outstretched, his heart thudding, but there was nothing there. Then something brushed his arm, and he fell to his knees in fright. Oh, God. What was in the room with him?
“Who’s there?” His voice shook with fright.
“Do not be afraid, Alessandra.” A woman’s soft voice came out of the darkness.
“Fuck!” he screamed. He closed his eyes and, for the first time since he was five, he prayed. A crazy idea flashed into his head. “Is that you, Samantha? It’s not funny.”
“No, I am not Samantha.”
“Jesus, please,” he whimpered. “Whoever you are, please stop. You’re scaring me.”
“Hush, sweet Alessandra. I mean you no harm.”
“Is this a dream?” he asked, his voice quivering.
“It is not a dream, Alessandra. And no harm will come to you, I promise.”
Adrenaline coursed through his body, making his heart race and spiking his senses into overdrive. A bolt of lightning lit up the room like an old-fashioned camera flash, freezing everything for an instant. In that microsecond of light, he caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, it was pitch black again.
“Is this a prank?” His voice quivered with fright.
“Not a prank, Alessandra, I want to help you.”
Despite his fear, Sandy thought he recognised the voice from somewhere.
“Help me? You’re scaring me half to death. Help me, how? And why are you calling me Alessandra? My name’s Alessandro.”
“What’s a name? It’s nothing but a label we can change if we choose.”
“But I don’t understand,” He pleaded, his mind in turmoil.
“You will, Alessandra. In time, you will.”
“What do you want from me?
“I want nothing from you, Alessandra; It’s what you want that matters most.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
Another flash of lightning lit the room, and this time it lasted long enough for him to see a cloaked figure standing by the window before the darkness returned.
“Shit,” he yelled, almost passing out with fear. But he thought he knew who it was. “Sam!” he squealed, “I know this is you. Stop fucking around, you’re scaring me to death.” Even to himself, he sounded unconvincing. A laugh came from the darkness, and he recognised it instantly as the same laugh he had heard on his first night at Wychwood. He was close to complete panic, fear robbing him of his senses.
“Alessandra, I have told you. I am not Samantha. Listen to me. I have only a little time. You will soon have to make a decision.”
“Decision? What decision? When?” he wailed.
“You will know when, but you must do what you feel is right. Much will depend on your choice. For you and others. Choose wisely.”
“But I don’t understand.”
”Alessandra. I have to go now. Be brave and take the next step. Remember, do not be afraid to break the rules.”
“What do you mean? What is the next step?”
The lights flickered twice before coming back on, and he spun around, but the room was empty. He felt dizzy, and his head ached. He got unsteadily to his feet, his knees had turned to jelly, and he staggered backwards, falling onto the bed.
His heart was thumping as if trying to escape his chest. What the hell had just happened? Was he dreaming? He sat up and looked around. No, he was awake. At first, he had thought it was Samantha playing a joke, but that didn't make sense. Why would she? If it wasn’t a prank or a dream, there was only one conclusion. He had always scoffed at the idea of ghosts, but it hit him like a thunderbolt that he had been talking to one.
To be continued
One
This time, Samantha announced her arrival by knocking on the door after she opened it. “Good morning, Sandy. Did you sleep well?” She bent down to pick something up from the carpet. “How did this thing get here?”
Sandy looked at her through bleary eyes. He felt drained, and his body ached as if he had the flu.
“How did what thing get where?” he croaked.
She held up a large black feather. “I think it’s from one of those rooks from around here,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Nasty birds.”
“Show me,” he said, yawning, and Sam handed him the feather. “Yes, it’s from a rook. They’re not nasty at all, Sam. They’re smart.” He paused. “Well, smart for a bird, at least. Some people believe they act as messengers between worlds. They’re supposed to signify that a change is on the way.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not you too. Lady Eleanor was always banging on about them. They give me the willies. What’s that rhyme? One for sorrow, two for joy, and all that?”
“That's about magpies, Sam. Same family, different bird. Rooks, crows, ravens, magpies, jays. They’re all from the same family.”
Sam looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know so much about them, anyway?”
Sandy summoned a grin. “I was a twitcher, Sam.”
She stared at him in astonishment. “You were a what?”
“Hardcore birdwatcher, Sam.”
Sam still regarded him suspiciously. “I thought it was some kind of illness.”
“Some people would say it is. Anyway, where do you find the feather?”
“Here on the carpet,” she pointed towards the window. “How odd is that?”
“Maybe it blew in through the window?”
“Can't have,” she said. “The window’s closed. That reminds me, Lady Eleanor had a painting made of one of them. It’s in the drawing room if you can find it. Give me the feather, and I’ll throw it out.”
Sandy held on to it. “No. I’ll keep it. I like it.”
Samantha wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Whatever. It’s strange how it got in here.”
Sandy’s brain had woken up at last, and he remembered something about a bird in his dream last night. He was sure that last night had been a dream. He shuddered at the memory. It couldn’t have been anything else, surely?
Samantha peered at him. “Anyway, you look worn out this morning.”
“I had a nightmare last night. You were in it.”
Samantha frowned at him and stood with her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. I was in your nightmare? And after all I’ve done for you. Really!”
Sandy groaned and fell back on the bed. “No, no. I didn't mean it like that. You have been an angel.”
“Mm-hmm, nice save. Come on, it’s not a good day out there.” She threw back the curtains to reveal rain lashing at the windows. He fell back onto the bed. “I wanted to go for a swim.”
Samantha smirked. “Adam won’t be there today, you know.”
Sandy ignored her. He wasn’t in the mood after last night.
“What’s up with you?” She said.
“Told you. Nightmare.”
“Alright, little Miss Grumpy. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“Bad news first.” It suited his mood this morning.
“The storm last night washed away the bridge over the Dead River, so it seems we’re cut off for at least a day or two.” He remembered the taxi crossing a narrow wooden bridge the day he had arrived.
“Oh, so I guess the storm caused the power cut last night,” he said, yawning.
“Power cut?” Samantha frowned. “What power cut?”
“The one last night. The lights went off in here for a while during the storm.”
“There wasn’t a power cut. If there had been one, the generator would have kicked in, but it didn’t.” Her words sent a chill crawling up his back. If there hadn’t been a power cut, why had the lights gone out?
“Anyway,” she went on, “The good news is that Sir Robert’s PA told Mhairi that he will be back here soon, maybe in a couple of days.” Sandy’s mood lifted straight away at the thought of seeing Overstrand again. However, she went on. “But because the bridge is down, the engineer can't get here to mend the washing machine.”
“Oh, so my clothes are still stuck?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so. But don’t worry. I have a plan.”
Sandy groaned again. “Don’t tell me—”
“Admit it. You loved yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, then. Have your shower, and I’ll come back.”
“What do you have in mind?” He asked, anxious about what she might have in mind.
“Good things come to those who wait,” was all she said. Despite his uneasiness, Sandy also felt a ripple of excitement. Maybe the bridge being down wasn’t such a bad thing.
“Come on, get out of bed. We haven’t got all day.” She pulled back the duvet. “Oh my, you look gorgeous in that nightdress, girl.” He had put it on when he went back to bed. “Your legs are fabulous. Mind you, they’d look even better in stockings.” He blushed, but he tingled with pleasure at the idea.
He made sure to lock the bathroom door to keep Samantha from barging in, and he took his time in the shower, using the jasmine-scented gel he had come to love. He took extra time to moisturise, enjoying how smooth it left his skin. When he emerged from the shower, Samantha was nowhere to be seen, but she had laid out some clothes for him.
Two
On top lay a pair of white lace knickers. Victoria's Secret, this time. He picked them up and turned them over in his trembling fingers, wondering whether they would fit. He giggled, knowing there was only one way to find out. Without hesitation, he drew them slowly up his legs, relishing the soft kiss of the lace until they nestled around him, making him shiver with delight.
He turned to the clothes on the bed. There was a white blouse of some kind, along with a pair of light-blue shorts. They looked so pretty and feminine, and the thought of wearing them sent goosebumps down his spine. Despite how yesterday had gone, he still worried about what the others would think.
There’s only Sam, Mhairi, and Allegra here, he told himself, and they don’t seem to mind what he wears. I’ll try it on, he told himself, and if I don't like it, I can always take it off. He carried the outfit to the full-length mirror in the dressing room. He stood for a few moments, looking at his reflection, wearing only the knickers. They were small but just about covered him, and he watched in the mirror as he slid his hands around his bum, then up his chest, until his fingers brushed his nipples, and a soft moan escaped his lips.
That's enough, he told himself, reluctantly opening his eyes and picking up the shorts. He quickly pulled them on to find they were a perfect fit. The blouse was fiddly at first, but once he had turned it the right way round, he manoeuvred it over his head. He struggled with the thin straps, which fastened behind his neck, leaving his back exposed. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and his eyes widened in surprise. The top had a revealing V-neck that ended at his midriff, where an elasticated band made the fabric flare out, leaving some of his tummy bare. The shorts fitted tightly, and he thought they shaped his bum beautifully. As he admired himself in the mirror, he heard a soft whistle behind him. Samantha stood by the door watching him.
“You look so cute in that. I knew it would suit you.”
“Bloody hell, Sam. Stop creeping up on me.” A thought struck him. “Er, how long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” She winked, and he felt himself redden.
“Do I look alright, Sam?”
To his surprise, she kissed him on the cheek. “You look beautiful. But there is something that will make it even better. Close your eyes and trust me.”
“What are you going to do?”
She touched a finger to his lips and said, “Shh. You will love it. Have I been wrong so far?” He shook his head. “Then close your eyes for me. Hold still and don't move your lips.” A few seconds later, something slid across his top lip, then his bottom lip. “You can open your eyes now.”
Opening his eyes, he saw Samantha holding a lipstick. “Oh,” he said, licking his lips and feeling the slickness of lipstick for the first time in a long time.
“Don’t do that. You’ll smudge it. Hold still while I do it again.” She reapplied the lipstick and showed him the tip. “It’s Chanel Darling Pink. Lady Eleanor loved it. It looks perfect on you.” She produced a small mirror and held it up for Sandy to see. He loved how the lipstick emphasised the shape of his lips. Turning back to Samantha, he said, “Oh, Sam. I can't wear this.” He looked back into the mirror and whispered almost to himself, “Can I?”
“Of course you can. It's your colour, Sandy.”
“No, I mean…should I?”
Samantha whispered, “Don’t worry about what anybody else thinks. What's the thing Sir Robert says, ‘Don’t stop breaking other people's rules’? If you like it, then yes, you should.”
Sandy put his arms around Samantha and hugged her. "Sam, you are wonderful. Thank you so much.”
Samantha whispered into his ear, “Oh, Sandy. We’ve only just begun.”
Three
Sandy remembered Samantha talking about a painting of a rook that Lady Eleanor commissioned. It seemed an odd subject to choose, but after breakfast, he decided to take a look before starting work on the diary. In the drawing room, he examined each picture in turn, unable to find anything that resembled a rook, until he reached the painting above the fireplace. It showed a beautiful woman in profile, exquisitely painted, her black hair spread behind her, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. There was a hint of a smile on her lips, as if she had caught sight of her lover on his way home. He studied it for a few minutes but couldn't see anything else. It was a striking painting, but this can’t be it, he thought.
Disappointed, he was about to turn away when he blinked and looked back at the picture. What had Samantha said? ‘If you can find it.” Suddenly, his focus shifted, and like one of those Magic Eye pictures, he was astonished to see the feathers of a bird’s body and tail hidden in the woman’s long black hair. The woman's nose became the bird’s beak, and her pale green eye became the eye of what was now obviously a rook. The artist had been so clever that you wouldn't see it unless you knew what to look for.
He stepped back, the bird even clearer to him now, and he wondered what Lady Eleanor had meant it to signify. It was a clever trick, but did it have a deeper meaning, or was the painting simply a playful artistic joke obvious only to those in on the joke?
How strange it was that the woman in the picture, the birds in the garden, those in his dream, and indeed Sandy himself all had green eyes. He wondered whether rooks could have green eyes. Was it a mutation among the local rooks?
As he peered more closely at the picture, he noticed the artist had added something in tiny letters, almost hidden in the woman’s hair or the bird’s feathers, depending on how he looked at the painting. He traced it with his finger, and the hairs on his neck stood up as he read ‘And death shall have no dominion.’ He shivered. It was the same line on her headstone.
Did it hold any profound meaning for Lady Eleanor and Sir Robert? After all, she had included it in the painting, and it must have been Sir Robert who placed it on her headstone. Sandy shook his head. Was it simply a phrase from a favourite poem, with no deeper or hidden meaning? Yet it moved him nonetheless.
He sat and stared at the painting for a while longer, thinking about the woman who had commissioned it. He still held the feather, turning it over in his fingers as he studied the painting, hoping it would help him understand Eleanor. He was finding it hard to form a clear image of her, yet he still felt a connection with her, and she remained a mystery. He had googled her, but there was precious little to be found online. She had guarded her privacy carefully and always stayed in the background, leaving the limelight to Overstrand. But it looked like someone, presumably Overstrand, had scrubbed the internet of any image of her. The rich can buy privacy, he thought, even online.
The rich would have ways of doing that, but why would Overstrand want to? From what he knew about Overstrand, Sandy believed he had loved his wife. Yet he had put all the pictures of her in the house into storage and seemingly removed her from the internet. It seemed such a strange thing to do. Still, he thought, it wasn’t his problem.
Sandy stood up and almost fell off the wedges he was wearing. It was a sharp reminder of what was happening to him. Only a few days ago, he had arrived at Wychwood, eager to begin work on the diary’s translation. And now? He was wearing the clothes that had belonged to Overstrand’s dead wife, even though they were brand new and unworn, as Samantha kept insisting
Four
Sandy heard a clock somewhere in the house strike midday just as his phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Overstrand. Sandy panicked. He couldn’t let Overstrand see what he was wearing, so he made sure only his face was visible on the screen. From what Sandy could see in the background, he was calling from his office.
“Hi Sandy, how are you?”
“I’m well, Robert, thank you.”
“How’s progress on the diary?”
“It’s going well. I’ve come across something I didn’t expect. After Tintoretto painted her portrait, she helped pay for it by sleeping with him several times, which she describes in lurid detail, including the size of his manhood.”
Overstrand laughed. “Tintoretto? That’s wonderful. That will stir things up. I can’t wait to hear more, but I wanted to warn you that you will have company soon. You remember Annabelle?”
“Yes, of course.” How could he forget Annabelle, he thought.
“Well, for reasons she can explain, she and her wife, Fleur, need somewhere private for a day or two. I’ve told them they can stay at Wychwood. I’m sure they’ll keep out of your way. I hope that’s not a problem for you.”
“Of course not, Robert. I look forward to seeing them.” Sandy thought it was sweet of him to ask. It was Overstrand’s house after all.
“They’ll arrive in the helicopter this afternoon. I understand the bridge is still not fixed.”
“Yes, we’re still cut off.”
“That's not a problem, is it?”
“No, no, not at all.” Shit, he thought, he would have to find some different clothes. “By the way, does Mhairi know they’re coming?”
“Yes, I told her before I called you. Sorry, I have to dash. The Prime Minister is on hold to speak to me. She wants a favour, which means I get at least three in return. By the way, have you done something to your lips? Got to go. See you soon.”
The line went dead, and Sandy froze in horror. He had forgotten about the lip gloss Samantha had applied, and at that moment, he heard the sound of a helicopter circling overhead.
Fuck, he thought. Overstrand had said this afternoon, not right now. He ran to the window in time to see the helicopter land. Annabelle stepped down from the helicopter, remembering to duck this time, followed by a tall, shaven-headed Black woman wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and cowboy boots. That must be Fleur, he thought, Annabelle’s wife. They walked hand in hand to meet Mhairi, who was waiting for them on the lawn.
Sandy dashed out of the library, shouting, “Sam! Sam! Sam!”
Her head appeared from behind the kitchen door. “Where’s the fire?” she asked.
“Fire? What fire? There’s no fire,” spluttered Sandy.
“Calm down. If we’re not on fire, what’s all the shouting about?”
“But Annabelle and her wife are here.” He was close to a panic attack.
“Yes, I know. So, what's the problem?” She said, as if talking to a five-year-old with a sugar rush.
“This is the problem.” He gestured down at what he was wearing. “They can’t see me like this.”
“Mm-hmm, I see your point.”
“Thank you,” Sandy said sarcastically. “What can we do about it?”
“I agree it's a bit casual to receive guests. We can get you into something more formal. Perhaps a skirt or a dress. Oh, I know exactly the thing.”
“Noooo! I can’t meet Annabelle like this.” He almost stamped his foot but glared at Samantha instead. “Or in a dress. Where are my clothes? I mean the ones I came with.”
Samantha frowned. “I was going to tell you later. I’m pleased to say we got the washing machine going at last.”
Sandy groaned. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”
Samantha said almost gleefully, “Because your clothes have been in there so long, the water has ruined them.”
Sandy’s blood ran cold. “I will have to hide. I can't meet them like this.”
“Why not?” Samantha said.
“Why not? Why not? Because Annabelle will tell Sir Robert, and he will fire me, and I will never get another job…” His voice tailed off, and he felt tears prick his eyes.
Samantha wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. “Sandy, that's not going to happen. You need to trust me on this. We will tell Annabelle and Fleur the truth.”
Sandy turned pale. “You can’t tell them the truth, for God’s sake.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “I mean that because your clothes were ruined, and because the bridge is down, you haven't been able to get out to buy more.”
“Oh. I suppose that would work,” he said, panic subsiding. “But what will I wear?”
“I’ll sort out something for you. Maybe not a dress this time, but I have something in mind. I promise you neither Annabelle nor Fleur will bat an eyelid.”
“Can’t I just stay in my room?” He pleaded.
“No, because in Sir Robert’s absence, you are the host for any guests at Wychwood. That’s what he said to Mhairi when he told her they were coming. You don’t want to let him down, do you?”
Sandy stared at her. “Me? The host?”
“That's what he told Mhairi. It makes sense. You’re his representative while he’s not here.”
“Oh, God. I’m not sure I can do it, Sam.” Sandy felt astonished yet thrilled by what Sir Robert had said.
“Of course you can. Mhairi and I will support you. All you have to do is look after your guests. Come with me while Mhairi gets them settled in their apartment.”
He followed Samantha upstairs and into the dressing room. “Get out of that outfit while I find something.” She rummaged through a rack of outfits until she exclaimed, “Ah, there you are. Yes, this will be perfect.”
For the umpteenth time, he wondered how he had let himself get into this. Samantha turned back to find him still in the top and trousers.
“Come on, hurry up. We haven’t got much time.” In a daze, he took off the top, and as he bent over to pull them down, he heard her giggle as his knickers slipped down as well, revealing his naked bum. “Take them off, too. I’ve got some fresh underwear here as well.”
He slid the knickers off and stood naked in front of Samantha. Strangely, he didn't feel embarrassed. He had grown used to her seeing him almost naked, so he didn't feel awkward. She handed him a pair of black lace knickers, and he slid them up his legs. They were high-waisted and stretched deliciously across his bum.
“La Perla,” said Samantha. “They make your bum look fabulous.”
”Oh,” he said, looking down. “They don’t conceal much.”
She grinned wickedly. ”That’s the whole point. It’s a good job you got rid of all that nasty hair down there.”
It was true that he loved how smooth his skin felt after shaving his pubic hair, and it made wearing the knickers so much more thrilling. Samantha produced something she had been holding behind her back and said, “Turn around, and I’ll help you on with this.”
“What is it?”
“I said, turn around and put your hands in the air. Quickly, we haven’t got much time.”
His submissive nature kicked in, and he did as he was told. He felt Samantha slide something over his arms and shoulders. In the mirror, he could see it was a cream-silk, sleeveless, V-necked blouse with long ribbons of fabric trailing down the front. Before he could ask what they were, Samantha handed him a pair of black leather trousers and said, “Get these on, and I’ll sort out some shoes for you.”
The leather was soft and supple, and they slid easily up his legs. They felt wonderful against his skin, and he could feel them tight around his backside. Samantha returned, carrying a pair of black ankle boots with spiked heels and bright red soles, and dropped to her knees before him. He looked down as she picked up one foot and slid it into the boot
“Put your hand on my shoulder while I do the other one,” she said. Sandy did so, and she slipped the boot onto his other foot. Samantha stood up, and Sandy had to grab her as he wobbled a bit.
“Oh my God, Sam, I don’t know if I can manage these.”
She gave him a side-eye look. “Somehow I think this isn’t the first time you’ve worn heels like these. Besides, the ankle boots will give you more support.”
He felt his face flush as it was true. He had worn heels this high in the fetish club, and he had loved them.
“Okay, take a few steps. Stand up straight, put your heel down first and don’t look down. Take shorter steps and place one foot directly in front of the other. Hold my shoulder if you want.”
He held Samantha’s shoulder at first, but it was a bit like riding a bike. You might wobble a bit, but once you learn, you never forget. He quickly got his balance and felt steady enough to take his hand off her.
“Told you so,” said Samantha, a knowing grin on her face. “Now, stand still, I need to finish the blouse.” She stood in front of Sandy and took hold of the two hanging ribbons, and with a couple of quick hand movements, tied a perfect bow. She stood aside, and Sandy saw himself in the mirror.
Samantha grinned. “I told you it was nothing to worry about, didn't I? Just a shirt, trousers and shoes.”
Except that the shirt was a sleeveless silk blouse with a pussy bow, the trousers were tight black leather, and the shoes were three-inch-high Louboutin black ankle boots.
“Oh my…” he managed to say.
“I told you I would find you something suitable, didn't I?” Samantha looked extremely pleased with herself. “Let me touch up your lips before you go.“ Samantha produced a lip gloss and quickly covered Sandy’s lips. “There,” she said, “That's much better. You are going to have to do that for yourself, mind you.”
She turned him back to face the mirror, and he was shocked, but also delighted, to see how much shinier his lips were with the lip gloss. He studied his reflection for a few minutes, trying to decide something.
He turned to Samantha and whispered, “Can I do this, Sam?”
“Of course you can, sweetie. You were born for this. Now go and greet your guests,” she said. He turned to leave, but Samantha grabbed his arm. “Wait, there's something I forgot.” She rushed into the bedroom and returned a few seconds later carrying something. “Give me your hand,” she said, and he felt something slide over his hand. “Tsk,” Samantha said, “We have got to do something about your nails.” He looked down to see a silver bracelet dangling from his wrist. It sparkled and glinted in the light, and it looked beautiful, he thought. He felt his eyes moisten as he turned to her and said softly, “Thank you, Sam.”Samantha kissed his cheek and said, “Knock 'em dead, girl.”
Five
Sandy walked to the kitchen to find Mhairi and Allegra preparing lunch. Allegra clapped when she saw him, and Mhairi said, “I’ve told your guests that we’ve had a problem with the washing machine and that you’re wearing something we let you borrow. I’ve settled them in a guest suite, and they are having drinks in the drawing room. I suggest lunch at half past one in the dining room and dinner at seven.”
“Oh, perfect, Mhairi. Thank you.” He hesitated before asking her, “Tell me, do I look all right? Please be honest with me.”
Pursing her lips, she looked him up and down. “Yes, that is perfectly acceptable for receiving guests in the daytime. However, you will need something more formal for dinner tonight, and I will ask Samantha to prepare something suitable. Now, go and look after your guests.”
He was too flustered to pay attention to what Mhairi had said, and it wouldn’t be until some time later that he would discover what she meant by ‘something more formal’. Right now, all he could think about was taking care of the guests. Of course, they weren’t really his guests, but he felt Overstrand had given him the responsibility, and he didn't want to let him down. He reached the door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. He thought back to the first time he had met Annabelle in this room a few days ago, and today she was in the same place on the same sofa. This time Annabelle stood up and, to his surprise, kissed him on both cheeks. “It’s lovely to see you again, Sandy,” she said. “You look wonderful.”
“Do you really think so, Annabelle? I’m not sure.”
Annabelle looked him up and down and said, “You know I was wrong about you.”
Puzzled, Sandy said, “Wrong? How so?”
“I thought you were pretty, but you’re gorgeous.”
Before Sandy could say anything, Fleur strode into the room wearing a white, button-down man’s shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of men’s loafers. She stood a head taller than both Sandy and Annabelle and had the kind of physique only regular gym sessions could produce. Sandy suddenly pictured her as one of the Kingdom Guards from Black Panther. She was dazzling, he thought, and would inevitably dominate any room she entered. He felt more than a little overawed by her. Annabelle quickly took Fleur’s hand.
“Sandy, meet my wife, Fleur." Fleur held out her hand to shake Sandy’s. Her grip was unexpectedly firm, and Sandy winced as she squeezed his hand.
“Delighted to meet you, Sandy,” she said, in an American accent.
“You’re American,“ blurted Sandy, immediately feeling foolish.
“Guilty as charged, Sandy,” laughed Fleur. “I was born and raised in Alabama. And no, I didn't vote for the Mango Mussolini.” She tilted her head. “It's the first question everyone here asks me.” Sandy saw anger flash in her eyes. “Barbarians have taken over my country, but I don't want to talk about them any more today. I’m here to escape.”
Annabelle broke the awkward silence that followed. “Fleur, Sandy’s working on one of Robert’s Venice projects.”
Fleur’s face lit up. “Oh my God, I really want to visit Venice. It looks beautiful, but this one…” She turned to Annabelle and pulled a face. “…only ever tells me how awful it is there. Please tell me she’s wrong.”
Sandy grinned, delighted to join in. “Fleur, pay no attention to her. Venice is, without doubt, the most beautiful city on earth. There is nowhere else that comes anywhere near.”
Annabelle huffed. “Sandy, you and Robert are in a cult, so neither of you can be trusted to tell the truth. Speaking of Robert,” her face darkened as she said, “Did he tell you why we’re here?”
Sandy looked from Annabelle to Fleur. “No. He said you might tell me. But you don’t have to.”
Annabelle gave Fleur a questioning glance, who nodded. Annabelle said, “No, you should know.”
They sat on the sofas, with Fleur and Annabelle side by side on one, holding hands, and Sandy facing them on another. Sandy thought Annabelle was unusually nervous and kept glancing at Fleur. She cleared her throat and began to speak. “As you can imagine, there are many fans of my TV show, and the vast majority are lovely.” She paused and looked at Fleur, who squeezed her hand. “However, there are some who, how shall we call it, become too invested in the show. They can be a little flaky, but they generally mean no harm. We also get haters who post vile stuff about the show and sometimes about me. It’s an unpleasant part of being a woman in the media. Someone is stalking me online and in real life. What’s worse, they have been making death threats against Fleur.”
She paused to look at Fleur, who was scowling ferociously. “And last week, the police told us about a credible threat from the person making the threats, well, she—” Sandy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, we think it’s a she who plans to kidnap and kill Fleur. The police are going to arrest her tomorrow, so they want us out of the way, somewhere safe. Robert offered to put us up here until we’re in the clear. Hopefully, it will only be a couple of days.”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” said Sandy. “It must be terrifying for you both. Why is she doing it?”
Annabelle was about to answer when Fleur cut in. “She’s infatuated with Annabelle and wants me out of the way. The nut job believes that getting rid of me would leave her free to be with Annabelle. She has been stalking Annabelle for the past year, although her delusion seems to have worsened in the last few months. She sent a black Barbie doll with the head cut off to Annabelle’s office last week. She’s clearly psychotic, but she’s also clever enough to have evaded the police so far.”
“She must be insane,” Sandy said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Surely she can’t believe that would happen. It must be so frightening.”
“Crazy is what crazy does,” said Fleur. “But I will not stand by and let some psychopath intimidate us. The police had better find her and take her out if necessary. I carry a gun in the US, but not here, unfortunately. We asked for a Taser, but your police refused. Even pepper spray is illegal here. Although we both have one, that's all.”
Sandy noticed Annabelle throw a nervous glance at Fleur and had the clear impression that Fleur was the dominant partner. Sandy was amused to see the normally uber-confident Annabelle being so deferential.
At that moment, Mhairi appeared at the door and announced that lunch was ready in the dining room. Sandy sat at the head of the table, with Annabelle and Fleur on either side. He felt a little giddy in the seat usually taken by Overstrand, and he hoped he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. As Samantha began to serve lunch, Sandy turned to Fleur. “Fleur, I’m sorry, I don't know what you do.”
“I’m a lawyer, Sandy. Mostly media work. Trying to stop the Tech Bros from ripping everyone off. I’m also Annabelle’s agent. I’ve done a few things for Sir Robert as well.” She spoke with a soft Southern drawl, but beneath it, Sandy sensed a steely edge. He supposed that was essential for a lawyer in her world.
“How did you meet each other?”
“I was in LA on an assignment,” Annabelle said. “We met one night in a lesbian bar. We’d both gone there with other people, but somehow we hooked up, ditched the others, and went back to my hotel together. Delightfully sordid. We got married a year later. We didn’t make a big thing of it because it's really none of anyone else’s business.
Lunch passed quickly as Annabelle shared behind-the-scenes stories from her television show, making Sandy almost cry with laughter. Fleur chipped in with some of her own anecdotes about the cutthroat media world she worked in. Samantha was serving, and Sandy thought she was trying to flirt with Annabelle, getting very close to her as she poured the wine and smiling at her a little too obviously. Annabelle was playing up to it and even touched Samantha’s wrist when she asked for more wine. Fleur didn't miss it either, frowning at both Samantha and Annabelle. Sandy remembered Annabelle saying how jealous Fleur was, so he might need to tell Samantha to tone it down a bit.
It wasn’t long before Fleur said she wanted to take a rest. As she said this, she shot a sideways glance at Annabelle, which made Sandy think Fleur was reacting to Samantha’s flirting. Sandy’s imagination ran riot with what might happen to Annabelle when Fleur got her back to their room. Sandy declared she should get back to the diary, and they parted, agreeing to meet for drinks before dinner.
Sandy returned to the library, but after a few minutes, her attention strayed to what Annabelle had said about her stalker. She couldn’t imagine how scared she would be to have to deal with something like that. But at least it seemed there would be an end to it soon. She sighed, her concentration broken, and she decided to treat herself to an afternoon off to rest and catch up on some reading. Inevitably, perhaps, after the day she’d experienced, Sandy fell asleep with her book in hand, only to wake when Samantha shook her shoulder.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to get pretty.” Samantha whispered.Six
Sandy took a quick shower and returned to the bedroom wearing a bathrobe.
Samantha appeared from the dressing room, holding something behind her back. “I think you’re ready for this,” she said.
“Ready for what?” Sandy said, already suspicious.
“Close your eyes first,” Samantha said. Sandy closed his eyes and felt Samantha step in front of him, pressing something against him. She guided his fingers to grasp something soft at shoulder height. “Open your eyes now.”
Sandy blinked open his eyes and stared at the mirror. His mouth dropped open as he saw the dress she was holding. It was the colour of Scottish thistles in full bloom, with cap sleeves, a belt at the waist and a mid-length skirt
“Sam, I can’t wear that,” he squeaked.
“Why not?” demanded Samantha.
“Because it’s a dress, Sam.”
“Honestly, Sandy. Do you think it's so much different from what you have been wearing?”
The now all too familiar debate kicked off in his mind. Could he wear it? Should he wear it? Did he want to wear it?
Samantha recognised that he needed a gentle push and moved around behind him.
“Doesn’t it look pretty? It will be stunning on you,” she cooed.
She saw his eyes widen and sparkle as he looked at the reflection. One last shove, she thought and whispered in his ear, “Tell me you’ve never worn a dress before, and I’ll call you a liar, sweetie.”
He blushed the same colour as his hair. “Hah, busted,” crowed Sam.
Sandy caught sight of the label on the dress. “Oh, no,” he said. “I can't wear it.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because it’s Oscar de la Renta.”
Samantha glared at him. “Not good enough for you, princess?”
“No, it's too bloody expensive. It must have cost thousands.” Sandy said in exasperation.
“Sandy, sweetie. The price doesn’t matter. It’s who wears it that makes the difference. It's a stunning dress, and it will look gorgeous on you. Have I been wrong so far?”
He hesitated, torn between wanting to wear the dress and the fear of looking like a fool in it.
Suddenly realising what lay behind Sandy’s reluctance, Samantha said, “I know you’ll rock this frock, but I’ll make a deal with you. Try it on; if you still feel the same, we’ll try something else. But if you do want to wear it, we’ll go for gold and make you look fabulous. Deal? Come on, I promise you won’t regret it.”
Sandy’s resistance was crumbling, but he still wasn’t convinced. With his head down and his voice trembling, he said, “I don't want Annabelle and Fleur to laugh at me.”
Samantha wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Sandy, I would never, ever let that happen. You must believe me.”
He tried to return the dress to Samantha, but she pushed his hands away and asked, “Did either Annabelle or Fleur say anything about what you wore for lunch?”
”No,” he admitted. Sandy took another look in the mirror, and once again, his willpower deserted him. “I'll give it a try, but if I don't like it…”
”Okay,” said Samantha. “Let's get you into this. First of all, what are your legs like?”
”What? My legs? I’ve got two of them. What do you mean?”
Samantha rolled her eyes. ”Have you shaved them recently?” she said patiently.
”Um, no. Why should I?”
“Because there’s nothing worse than hairy legs in stockings. Let's have a look then.”
“Look? At what?” he spluttered.
“God help me,” she sighed. “Show me your legs.”
Sandy pushed one leg through the front of the robe, and Samantha ran her fingers down his leg, sending goosebumps along his spine. “Mmm, not too bad, but go and shave them and moisturise. We can give you a wax sometime. Mhairi loves doing that.”
Why was he not surprised by that? He was sure Mhairi would enjoy ripping the hair from his legs.
“You want me to wear stockings?” he sounded shocked, yet the thought thrilled him.
Samantha sighed. “It’s not what I want; it’s whether you want to wear them. That’s the point.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes. “Hmm, I suppose you could wear tights instead, but they’re real passion-killers. I can’t stand them. I always wear stockings.” She hitched up the hem of her uniform to reveal the welt at the top of her stockings. She grabbed Sandy’s hand and slid it over her stockinged thigh. “Doesn’t that feel wonderful?”
His mouth went suddenly dry, and he swallowed as his fingertips slipped across the nylon. Samantha saw the look on his face and knew she had him. He was on the hook, and as usual, she had seen what he needed to nudge him along. Bringing her mouth to his ear, she whispered, “There’s nothing like the feel of a lover's hands sliding across your stockings on their way up your legs.” She felt him tremble, pulled his hand away, adjusted her dress, and, with a look like a cat about to pounce on a mouse, said, “Go and shave your legs, and I’ll get things ready for you.”
Like an automaton, Sandy walked to the bathroom, picked up the razor and shaving cream, stepped into the shower, and began to shave his legs.Eight
Sandy’s knees were shaking as he walked into the drawing room. He paused with his hand on the door handle before entering, his heart fluttering. He thought about turning and running back to the apartment to hide, remembering the fear and excitement that had enveloped him when he stood before the mirror in the dress he now wore. Of course, he had worn dresses before, but not one as beautiful as this.
He felt the tug of the stockings on the suspender belt beneath the dress. The heels pinched, but he loved how they enhanced his walk and posture. Samantha had done his make-up, and when he looked in the mirror, he had to hold on to her in surprise and delight. Even so, he almost panicked and wanted to tell Samantha he couldn’t go through with it. She told him it was going to be all right and to breathe deeply and relax.
Easy for you to say, he had told her, but she gave him a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. Knock ’em dead, she had said, and sent him off to face Annabelle and Fleur.
In the drawing room, Annabelle was on her own, intent on her phone. She looked up, and Sandy caught a look of astonishment on her face. She stood up and said, “Oh, sweet Jesus. You look like—I mean, you look stunning, Sandy.”
Sandy blushed and mumbled, “Honestly? You really think so?”
“Oh, yes. No doubt about it.” Annabelle hugged him, and he felt her breasts push against his chest, making him catch his breath.
“Annabelle, what were you going to say? Something about me looking like…”
“Oh, I was going to say in that dress, you look like you could be on a catwalk.”
For some strange reason, Sandy didn’t believe her, but he let it slide, because at that moment, Fleur walked into the room, catching them embracing.
“Am I interrupting something?” She was smiling as she said it, but something in her voice made Sandy remember Annabelle’s remark that Fleur could be very jealous. But, she can’t be jealous of me, thought Sandy.
Annabelle grabbed Fleur’s hand. ”I was just telling Sandy how gorgeous she looks. Don’t you think so?”
Fleur’s eyes flicked up and down Sandy with a look that gave him goosebumps. ” Yes, babe. I think she looks delicious.”
Sandy thought it was an odd thing to say, but his heart had fluttered when Fleur said she, not he. His nerves were rapidly subsiding at the two women's reactions. They carried on as if he were one of them. Samantha had slipped in behind them unnoticed and overheard Fleur. She smirked at Sandy before saying, “Would your guests like something to drink before dinner?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He turned to Annabelle and Fleur. “I’m so sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. What would you like to drink?”
Annabelle and Fleur both asked for vodka martinis, making Sandy shudder at the memory of the last time he had drunk one.
“And a gin and tonic for madam?” asked Samantha.
“Yes, please, Samantha,” he said without thinking. Wait, did she just say madam? He looked at Annabelle and Fleur, and they didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Cin cin,” said Fleur, clinking glasses first with Annabelle, then Sandy. ”What’s the toast?” she asked. Annabelle grinned and said, “To Sandy, may her dreams come true.”
Sandy joined in the toast, but as Annabelle and Fleur began discussing what they would do once the stalker had been arrested, Sandy’s mind drifted. What exactly were his dreams? Not the wild ones he had since arriving at Wychwood, but what did he want to do with his life? He was having a wonderful time at Wychwood, but he knew it would end. What would happen then? He wanted to live in Venice, but that could only be a pipe dream. There was no way he could afford it
Overstrand’s offer to translate the diary had given him a reprieve from having to think about what he wanted to do and, if truth be told, who he wanted to be. He had arrived at Wychwood aimlessly, looking for something: a path? a future? a meaning? a purpose? Had he found it?
“Sandy!” Annabelle’s voice made him jump. “You looked a million miles away. Are you okay?” She and Fleur were looking at him expectantly.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, sorry, Annabelle. What were you talking about?”
“Fleur asked when you will finish the diary?”
“Oh, truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve made good progress, but there’s still a lot to do before I finish. A couple of months, at least I would say.”
Fleur looked straight at him and asked, “And are you enjoying being here at Wychwood?”
Sandy froze for a moment. The question seemed straightforward, but he felt Fleur was asking for more than a polite enquiry. He glanced at Annabelle, who was also watching him, her wine glass poised, awaiting his answer. Once more, since he had been here, he felt a great deal rested on his answer
“Um, yes. I’m having a great time. Everyone here has been so kind, and Wychwood is a wonderful place to focus on the diary. No distractions.”
Fleur’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “No distractions at all?”
Sandy couldn’t stop the blush creeping across his face. “Well, I admit, I’ve been having some crazy dreams while I’ve been here.”
Fleur locked eyes with him. “Good dreams?”
Sandy gulped. “Mostly, and a couple of really wild ones. I think it must be because I’m sleeping in a new place.”
“Mmm, that normally wears off after a day or two, doesn’t it?” Fleur’s eyes were still unblinkingly fixed on his. “And you’re okay with the changes?”
“Changes?” Fleur’s eyes flicked up and down Sandy, her meaning obvious
Sandy felt himself nodding slowly as his mouth had suddenly dried up, and he could barely speak
Annabelle laid her hand gently on Sandy’s arm. “That’s lovely to hear, Sandy. I think you’ve found out something about yourself tonight. Come on, let’s drink Robert’s cellar dry. He would want us to celebrate.”
Celebrate? Celebrate what, thought Sandy. Then, with a clarity that shocked him, he realised tonight was what everything had been leading up to. He was wearing a dress, make-up, stockings, heels - and he loved it. He didn’t understand how or why it had happened, but with a rush that overwhelmed him, he realised he had found himself
A smile spread slowly across his face, and Annabelle caught his eye and winked. They didn’t drink the cellar dry that evening, but they made a dent in it before they finally staggered off to bedTen
Sandy arrived at the pool to find Annabelle and Fleur already in the hot tub. The water covered them up to their necks, but even so, he could tell they were topless. Each held a champagne flute and two bottles of Krug champagne nestled in an ice bucket.
“Come on, Sandy. Get in. We’ve been waiting for you,” said Annabelle, making space between her and Fleur.
Sandy shrugged the robe from his shoulders, revealing the tiny bikini he had taken from the dressing room.
“Mmm, cute little bulge,” giggled Fleur, who reached up to stroke it.
Blushing furiously, Sandy batted her hand away and slid into the water between the two women: Annabelle to his right, and Fleur on his left. Annabelle reached for the ice bucket to grab a bottle and poured a glass for Sandy before topping up her and Fleur’s glasses. As she stretched for the bottle, Sandy saw her breasts emerge from the water. They were small, but her nipples were erect, and Sandy had a sudden desire to suck them, and could almost feel them hardening between his lips.
He wondered what it would be like to have breasts like Annabelle’s and to have someone play with them. He looked down at his chest and, to his amazement, he saw a pair of small, puffy breasts with prominent nipples. He stared at them in wonder and couldn’t stop himself from stroking them with his fingers, and shivered as the nipples stiffened.
“Cute little tits, too,” said Anabelle, brushing away his hand and replacing it with her own. Sandy felt his nipple tingle as Annabelle brushed her fingers across it, as Fleur’s hand found his other breast. Annabelle was gentle, stroking and caressing, but Fleur was rougher. Her fingers pulled and pinched, making him close his eyes and throw back his head, and a moan escaped from his throat as pleasure flowed like electric shocks from his nipples through the rest of his body. They continued to torment his nipples, trapping him in a cycle of pleasure and pain, making him wriggle and writhe between them.
“Open your eyes,” Annabelle ordered, and he snapped his eyes open to see Fleur and Annabelle kissing each other, their tongues fencing with each other, before Annabelle sucked Fleur’s tongue between her lips. Sandy stared, wide-eyed as the two women kissed and tongued each other inches in front of his eyes, until Fleur broke the kiss and pulled his head forward to meet her lips. She thrust her tongue through Sandy’s lips into his mouth, holding his head with her hands so he couldn’t pull away. He felt her small breasts pressing against his, and she easily held him in place as she subdued him with her tongue, which felt as long and as slippery as an eel in his mouth. He was helpless, overwhelmed by her assault, as she relentlessly took possession of him, and he willingly submitted to her, while Annabelle lapped at his neck with long, slow cat-like strokes of her tongue. Annabelle took his hands and guided them to Fleur’s breasts, and he sucked in a breath as he found small silver bars piercing her nipples.
“Play with them,” Fleur ordered. “Hard.”
He tentatively pulled on one nipple. “Harder,” Fleur commanded, a sound like a warning growl from a panther. Sandy twisted and pulled on the silver bars so hard she was scared she would rip them out, but Fleur didn't pull away, so he did it again, and again, and again, until his fingers were aching. She began to pant, gulping air as he twisted her nipples until she threw back her head and came howling like a banshee.
Annabelle grabbed his hand and slid two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking and licking them until they were slick with her saliva. She let them slip out of her mouth, and holding his wrist, she opened her legs and pushed his two fingers into her pussy. Sandy was frozen, unsure of what to do, until Annabelle began to move her hips against his fingers. He began to respond, pushing his fingers in as she moved her hips forward. She pulled Sandy’s head onto her breasts, and his lips found a nipple, and he nipped it between his teeth, hearing her hiss in response. She thrust and ground herself against his hand faster and faster until she raked her nails down his back as her body shuddered, and she came with a scream.
“Your turn now,” said Fleur, standing up in the hot tub, her wet body glistening. Annabelle stood beside her, and between them, they hoisted Sandy onto the edge of the hot tub, his legs dangling into the water. He was trembling, with fear or excitement, he didn’t know or care. Annabelle pulled down the bikini pants he was wearing and dropped them into the tub. Sandy gazed down in bewilderment at his groin, because where he expected his cock and balls to be was flat, smooth skin with wispy ginger pubic hair. What the fuck? He slid his hand down to where his cock should be and felt nothing, but then his fingers found something that shouldn’t be there. Beneath his fingers were fleshy folds of skin, and between them, he could feel an opening, and suddenly, everything made sense. He now had a vagina instead of a penis, but he didn’t have time to wonder about how this had happened, because her heard Fleur order Annabelle, “Make her wet for me.”
Who was she talking about, wondered Sandy. The answer came when Fleur pushed him flat on his back, while Annabelle knelt in the tub and pushed Sandy’s legs apart. She locked eyes with his, and her head dipped down between his thighs. Annabelle’s tongue slipped through his pussy lips, and Sandy felt her gently kiss the inside of first one thigh, then the other, moving higher each time. The first long, slow stroke of her tongue on his pussy made him jump, as if every nerve in his body had fired at once.
“She’s ready for you,” said Annabelle, and stood aside to reveal Fleur standing behind her. Sandy’s eyes bulged as he saw a fully erect penis jutting from Fleur’s groin. It pointed upwards, long, thick, and heavy. Sandy had seen many, many cocks before, but never one this beautiful. He stretched out his hand to touch it, unwilling to believe it was real. His fingers touched the tip, and it felt hot. This was no cold plastic dildo; it was skin and tissue engorged with blood, pulsing in his hand.
Fleur bounced her cock against his pussy lips a few times, making him ache for her to enter him. She pulled back and then pushed herself deep inside him, forcing his head backwards as his mind erupted in a kaleidoscope of colours
Wychwood Day Seven
Early Morning
One
Sandy stirred in his sleep, disturbed by something. He groaned, desperate to get back to his dream. It had been so vivid, so real; he reached down to his groin and was almost disappointed to find his cock. His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, no doubt from all he had drunk with Annabelle and Fleur. A headache pounded behind his eyes, and he reluctantly dragged them open, groaning aloud before reaching for the glass of water he had left on the bedside table.
He drank half the glass, and just as his head hit the pillow again, he heard something, or thought he did. Telling himself to ignore it, he pulled the pillow over his head and closed his eyes. But whatever it was came again. And again. And again. It seemed to be coming from the window. It must be a branch scraping against the glass in the wind, he told himself. His eyes popped open when he remembered there were no trees outside the window.
He was awake now, nerves jangling, and his neck prickled as he heard the noise again. Sandy got out of bed, walked to the window, and snatched back the curtains. He leapt back in surprise, nearly falling over, because a large rook was perched on the ledge, pecking at the glass.
“What the fuck?”
The bird stopped pecking for a moment, looked up at Sandy, then jumped off the ledge towards the ground. Bloody bird, thought Sandy, and was about to draw the curtains again when it landed back on the ledge and pecked at the window several more times before jumping off. That’s weird, thought Sandy. As he looked out the window, pale moonlight filtered through the clouds. He squinted but couldn’t see anything, telling himself it was nothing, just as the clouds parted and the moon lit up the garden below like a searchlight.
He was about to turn away when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. In the moonlight, something had crossed the gap between two garden hedges. Sandy blinked in surprise, and then the clouds covered the moon again, leaving him peering in vain into the darkness. Had he seen something, or was it a trick of the moonlight? After all, he had caught only the briefest glimpse.
The rook was back on the ledge, pecking once more at the glass. Sandy was startled to see that the bird had pale green eyes. It couldn’t be the same one he had seen in the garden, could it?
Sandy decided he should at least check downstairs. Grabbing a robe to cover the nightdress Samantha had left out for him, he opened the apartment door to listen. Nothing. He was about to go back to bed, but he felt uneasy enough to tiptoe to the top of the stairs, his heart thumping in his ears. He stopped, took a slow, deep breath to calm himself, and listened. He heard nothing, and all seemed quiet, but as he turned to go back, an owl screeched outside, and he jumped as he used to on the ghost train as a child. He put his hand on his heart to steady himself, and in that instant, he heard a sound downstairs. His hackles rose in response.
It sounded like the creak of an opening door, and he held his breath, straining to listen in the darkness. He descended the stairs carefully, one step at a time, praying the steps wouldn’t make a sound. But something else nagged at the edge of his mind. Why had that rook appeared, and why had it been so persistent? Halfway down, he stopped and told himself he was being ridiculous. It was all in his imagination, and the bloody bird had nothing to do with it.
As he was about to turn back, he heard a sound from downstairs. This time, he was certain, there was someone downstairs. It must be Annabelle or Fleur moving about downstairs, perhaps fetching a glass of water. But why would they be creeping around in the dark? His heart was beating so hard he was sure it could be heard all over the house. Someone was moving in the hallway, their shoes scuffing on the terracotta tiles. His eyes had adjusted a little to the darkness, and he could make out a shape moving down the corridor towards the back of the house.
What the hell should he do? Should he call out? Raise the alarm? What good would that do? Samantha and Mharie were in their cottage, and Annabelle and Fleur were in Overstrand’s apartment at the back of the house. He let out the breath he had been holding and descended the rest of the stairs into the hallway as quietly as he could. Sandy heard a door squeak as it opened further down the corridor towards the kitchen. His throat had become so dry and tight that he needed to swallow to clear it, but when he tried, it came out as a barely muffled gurgle. As he tiptoed past a side table, he grabbed a silver candlestick, more to shore up his flagging confidence than as a real weapon.
He reached the kitchen door and eased it open, praying it wouldn’t squeak. He let out the breath he had been holding when it opened without a sound, then slipped through into the kitchen, where he paused to listen. Suddenly, the refrigerator’s compressor kicked in, filling the otherwise silent kitchen with an eerily loud hum. The only illumination came from the green LED clock on the oven, and as he watched, the light flickered for a moment as something, or someone, moved in front of it. He was properly scared now and decided to retreat from the kitchen to raise the alarm, but as he took a tentative step backwards, someone grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, and he felt something cold and sharp against his throat.
Two
“Don’t move or make a sound.” The voice was unnervingly soft and feminine, close to his left ear. Sandy was trembling, and for the first time in a very long time, he prayed.
“You sounded like a herd of buffalo following me,” she said. “But this is a bonus.” He felt her breath on his neck. “I won't have to waste time searching the house. Drop the candlestick and take me to Annabelle and her bitch,” the voice commanded. Instantly, Sandy knew she must be the stalker Fleur and Annabelle had spoken of. But how did she know they were at Wychwood? He did as he was told and dropped the candlestick. “I know they’re here,” the voice went on. “So don’t try anything, or I will slit your throat. Nod your head once if you understand.”
Sandy nodded, feeling the edge of the knife prick his throat.
“If you make a sound or try anything, I will cut you. Understand?”
Fear knotted his stomach, and his legs had turned to jelly. Sandy tried to say yes, but it came out as a grunt.
“Now take me to them,” the woman hissed in his ear.
Terror had scrambled Sandy’s brain, and all he could say was, ”Them?”
The woman pressed the knife harder into Sandy’s throat and said, “Don’t fuck me around. Take me to Annabelle and her bitch.”
Left with no alternative, Sandy finally found his voice. “They’re upstairs, but I can't do anything with that knife at my throat.”
The knife left his throat, but she pressed it hard into his back. “Okay, but any funny move and I will gut you like a fish. Now move.”
Sandy led the way to the back stairs, which led to the guest bedrooms where Annabelle and Fleur were staying. He thought his heart was about to burst, and his legs shook as he slowly led the woman up the stairs. She was obviously batshit crazy, and he had no doubt she would do what she said she would. He tried to think of a way out of this mess, but came up with nothing. He stopped halfway up the stairs, his senses returning, only for the knife to dig into his side.
“I’ve warned you,” said the woman. “Just lead me to them, and I’ll let you go.”
A moment of relief surged through Sandy, but he immediately knew she was lying. She had said she was going to kill Fleur, so she wouldn’t want to let him go to raise the alarm. All he could do was keep going and take any opportunity that came along. Sandy stopped at the door to Annabelle and Fleur’s room, and the woman held the knife to his throat again. Her voice whispered into his ear. “Open the door slowly. No tricks.”
Sandy eased open the door to find the room in complete darkness. He heard the woman scrabbling for the light switch, and suddenly the room was flooded with light. He squeezed his eyes shut against the glare and heard Fleur say, “What the fuck?” Followed by Annabelle, who said, “Oh God, no.”
He opened his eyes to see Fleur, sitting up in bed, shielding Annabelle. Both women were naked, and Sandy could see the terror in their eyes.
The woman threw some cable ties onto the bed with her free hand, the knife still pressed against Sandy’s throat. His breathing had become ragged, as adrenaline spiked by his fear poured through his body. He had to do something, or he was sure he would die. Please give me a chance to fight back, he prayed.
“Tie the bitch’s wrists together,” she hissed at Annabelle. Sandy saw Annabelle shake her head, “No, I won’t.” She tried to sound defiant, but there was a tremor in her voice.
“If you don’t, I will slit this one’s throat,” and pressed the knife even harder against Sandy’s throat.
Three
Sandy felt a sharp sting as the knife pierced the skin of his throat. As he closed his eyes, expecting the blade to slice into his throat, a loud crash echoed around the room as a window shattered, sending shards of glass flying into the room. Sandy felt the knife slip from his throat as everyone turned to look at the window. Sandy saw a large rook lying on the floor below the smashed window, motionless, yet with one green eye staring straight at him.
Sandy knew he had to act now, stamping his foot on the arch of the woman’s foot and pushing backwards. Taken by surprise, the woman yelled in pain, staggered, lost her balance, and loosened her grip on Sandy. Realising he wouldn’t get a second chance, he braced his legs for leverage and whipped his head back into her face as hard as he could. He heard the crunch as her nose broke, and they both tumbled backwards onto the floor. Sandy landed on top of her, jammed his elbow hard into her stomach, and heard her grunt as the wind was knocked out of her. Scrambling to his feet, he aimed a kick at her head, but she rolled away, and he overbalanced, grabbing the corner of a chest of drawers to keep himself upright. She clambered to her feet and lunged at Sandy with the knife in her hand.
What happened next seemed to Sandy to be in slow motion, but it took only a few seconds. She was almost upon him when he stepped towards her, deflected her knife arm with the back of his hand, and, in one move, swivelled into her, wrapping his right arm over her outstretched forearm, bracing it against his left arm, and thrusting down hard. She screamed as a bone snapped, and she flopped to the floor, dropping the knife. Sandy kicked the knife away just as the door imploded with a crash, and a voice yelled, “Armed police! Down on the floor! Now!” In an instant, the room filled with men in black helmets and body armour, machine guns pointed at them. Sandy dropped to the floor, face down next to the woman, who was moaning and crying. Sandy felt his arms yanked behind his back and his wrists bound with a cable tie. He glanced at the window and saw the broken glass, but there was no sign of the rook. It had vanished.
“Stay down,” ordered a male voice above him. Sandy heard Fleur shouting something about her rights as she was pushed to the floor and cable-tied. Bloody lawyers, thought Sandy.
Four
Some time later, after most of the police had left, along with Annabelle’s stalker, handcuffed to a stretcher, Sandy, Annabelle, and Fleur sat in the drawing room, drinking black coffee with a slug of brandy that Samantha had brought them. She took the opportunity to give Sandy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. He smiled up at her in appreciation just as a man in civilian clothes, wearing a police lanyard, entered the room.
"I’m DCI Appleyard, the senior officer in charge. I’m sorry you’ve had such a nasty experience, but I’m glad to see you’re all unharmed. Sorry, except for..." He glanced at a notepad and said, “Mister Rossi, is it?” He raised an eyebrow at Sandy, still wearing the bright floral silk robe he had grabbed from his bedroom.
Sandy nodded and said, “I’m okay, thanks.” His throat was still sore where the knife had cut the skin, but the paramedic had cleaned the wound and applied a plaster to stop any bleeding.
“Good. First of all, I know some of you objected to being restrained.” Fleur was about to speak when Annabelle stopped her with a glare. Appleyard continued, “It’s standard procedure when we breach a room because we don’t know who is who at first. Our priority is to neutralise the situation for everyone’s safety before we decide what to do next.” He paused to emphasise his words and looked at Fleur. “In this country, we try not to shoot first and ask questions later. We don’t want the wrong people getting shot.”
Fleur couldn't hold back any longer. “How the fuck did she know we were here?” she snapped at Appleyard.
“It’s still not confirmed, but from what we know, she followed you both to the Heliport at Battersea, where you boarded the helicopter. She apparently bribed someone there to learn where the helicopter was taking you. He’s under arrest. We had someone shadowing you, but after the helicopter took off, we stood them down. A team went to her address to arrest her, but there was no sign of her. Knowing you were here, we immediately authorised the local firearms unit as a precaution.”
Fleur snorted. But you had someone stationed here. Didn’t you? What good were they?”
Sandy could see a vein pulsing on Appleyard’s forehead and guessed the policeman was struggling to keep his temper. He turned to look hard at Fleur and said in a voice as sharp as broken glass, “He’s in surgery now. She stabbed him and left him for dead. It’s touch-and-go whether he’ll pull through.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. Appleyard looked at Sandy and said, “She came ready to kill, so you did a good job, Mr Rossi.”
Annabelle stood up and hugged Sandy, closely followed by Fleur. Sandy felt tears begin to flow, and soon all three of them were crying.
Appleyard gave them a moment before continuing. “We were late arriving because the bridge over the river was down, so we had to ford the river. By the way, we found a motorbike there, which we believe is how she got here so quickly. The unit deployed outside the house, and when we heard the window smash, I ordered entry. But there’s one thing I’d like to clear up.” He paused and looked at each of them. “Which one of you smashed the window?”
“We didn’t,” said Sandy. He looked at the others. “We all saw it, didn’t we?”
Fleur and Annabelle looked at each other and shook their heads. Annabelle said, “I heard the glass smash, that's all. I don’t know what caused it. Did you see what happened, Fleur?”
Fleur shook her head, and all eyes turned back to Sandy. “It was a bird,” he said, unable to believe that Annabelle and Fleur hadn’t seen it. “A bloody great rook smashed straight through the window. You must have seen it.”
“I didn’t see a bird,” said Fleur. “Didn't you shoot out the window?” she asked Appleyard.
He shook his head. “No, I didn't give an order to shoot, and no firearms have been discharged. Are you sure about the bird, Mister Rossi?”
“Yes, I saw it. It was lying on the floor in front of the window.”
Appleyard said, “There’s no bird there now, Mister Rossi.”
Sandy was about to reiterate that there most definitely had been a bird when he remembered that, as he lay on the floor next to the woman, there had been no sign of the rook. Something told him to keep quiet.
“Oh,” he said. “I must have imagined it. Everything happened so suddenly. It was all so confusing.”
Appleyard gave him a look but moved on. “One of my officers will be here shortly to take a statement from you all, and that includes you two, if you don't mind?” He looked at Mhairi and Samantha, who nodded their agreement. “It’s purely formal, so there’s no need to worry.” He paused before saying, “But can any of you tell me how the intruder ended up with a broken arm?”
Fleur jumped in. “It’s a goddamn shame she didn't end up with a broken neck, but Sandy was fantastic doing what he did. He was awesome.”
“Oh,” said Appleyard, turning his gaze to Sandy. “And what did you do that was so awesome?” Mister Rossi?”
Before Sandy could answer, Annabelle butted in. “Sandy took the mad bitch out before she could do anything. He was a fucking ninja. It was like something out of Killing Eve.”
Appleyard’s eyebrows zoomed skywards. “Is that right, Mister Rossi?”
Sandy had blushed scarlet. “I’ve taken a few self-defence classes: street fighting, that kind of thing. I’ve been bullied a lot in the past. It all just kicked in. I didn't have much choice. She was about to cut my throat, so when the window smashed, I took my chance.”
“Ah, yes. The mysterious smashed window. Let’s see what the forensics team has to say. I look forward to reading your statement, Mister Rossi. By the way, the intruder is in hospital under armed guard, and she will be transferred to prison afterwards. We have informed Sir Robert, and although he’s abroad, he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
Annabelle reached over to take Sandy’s hand. “Thank you, Sandy. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t dealt with her. Fleur and I owe you big time.”
Fleur hugged Sandy and kissed him on the cheek. “I owe you plenty, Sandy. Thank you from me as well.”
Five
Sandy was in a blissful half-awake, half-asleep state, luxuriating beneath the finest Swiss-made Egyptian cotton and Hungarian goose-down duvet money could buy. His body ached when he moved, so he decided not to move.
He had given his statement to a police officer, omitting any mention of a rook crashing through the window, and played down his involvement. The adrenaline high from the excitement had worn off, leaving him exhausted and aching, with a pulsing headache behind his eyes. He went up to his room, slipped off the robe, dry-swallowed a couple of painkillers, and, for once here at Wychwood, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He didn't know how long he’d slept, and he didn’t care. He knew he’d been close to death. If that window hadn’t smashed when it did, he wouldn’t be alive. It had given him the chance to fight back at the last possible moment. He buried his head under the duvet, closed his eyes, and tried to remember what had happened. The window had exploded inwards. The glass on the floor inside the room proved it. So, logically, something had smashed the pane from the outside. The police had said they didn't shoot it out, and he didn't believe that glass could spontaneously shatter at just the right moment. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t the hand of God.
It was true that everything had happened so quickly and been very confusing, as he had told Appleyard. However, despite what he had put in his statement, Sandy knew there were certain undeniable truths: that the earth is round; that man has stood on the moon; that pistachio is the best flavour of gelato; that the greatest view of Venice is from the Campanile of San Marco; and that he had seen a rook lying on the floor after it crashed through the window.
So why had it vanished? And why did everybody else claim not to have seen it? There was an answer, he thought, though he knew it would defy rational explanation. There had been so many strange things that had happened since he arrived at Wychwood that he was beginning to question what was real and what may be his imagination playing tricks on him. Before he arrived at Wychwood, he had laughed at people who believed in the supernatural, yet he was now convinced he had met and spoken to a ghost.
The weirdness had started when he arrived at Wychwood: the dreams, the odd vanishing text messages, the video on his laptop, the ghost, and finally the rook that had disappeared after breaking the window. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. A chilling thought took shape in his mind. If it had all begun when he arrived here, then was it the house that was causing it all? His blood ran cold at the idea, but at that moment he heard the bedroom door creak open. He was still under the duvet, and he thought that must be Samantha, come to check on him. She had been so lovely to him, fussing over him, hugging him when he began to shake, holding his hand, and stroking his hair when he cried. He should get up and thank her for taking care of him. Sandy pushed the duvet down and sat up in bed, then his world collapsed.