by Lulu Taylor
Flora sat down at the table and the housekeeper brought her a pot of strong coffee, hot milk and a plate of bread and cold meats – just the same as she had eaten for supper the night before. It’s Christmas Day, she remembered. There was not a sign of any festivities. What kind of place was this?
‘Ach, your face!’ the housekeeper said, looking at Flora’s cheek. It was bruised and swollen. ‘Let me get you some arnica. Good for bruises.’ She didn’t ask how Flora had hurt herself but simply brought a tube of cream for her to apply to her face.
It was only later when Flora stood up to leave, wondering what she should do with herself now, that she said, ‘Wh-wh-where is Otto’s m-m-mother? I must introduce myself to her. Is she still s-s-sick in bed?’
‘Sick in bed?’ The woman had looked amused at this. ‘No, no.’ She had given Flora a look of sympathy. ‘I am Otto’s mother.’
‘Oh.’ Flora had been painfully confused. ‘But … I don’t understand.’
Her mother-in-law had shrugged. ‘What is so hard to understand? All will become clear in time.’
After breakfast Flora had returned to her room and unpacked her clothes. Her handbag, she noticed, was missing. Perhaps she had left it in the car the previous night. She put the gifts she had brought for Otto on the table by the bed and wondered if perhaps Christmas was going to happen later, or if it was all done differently in Germany. With nothing else to do, she wandered off to explore the castle on her own. It was far from the romantic place of her imagination – dilapidated in the extreme. There was almost no furniture in the place – empty, dusty, cold rooms followed one upon the other. Where there was plaster, it was peeling and damp, stonework was crumbling and bare bulbs flickered unreliably in the depths of dark corridors. Outside it was even worse: the roof was falling to pieces and window frames were rotting. The outbuildings were no more than hovels and the driveway was covered in ugly, cracked concrete.
Flora could not believe it. Otto had said it had been restored to a Rococo delight, which was manifestly not the case. Could this really be the noble ancestral home of the von Schwettens? Was this the place that he had been determined to protect, in case of an expensive divorce? It couldn’t be worth much, not in this state …
After a morning spent looking about the place, Flora went to find Otto’s mother again. She was still in the kitchen, this time swathed in a large apron and stirring something in a saucepan.
‘Madam Baroness,’ she began awkwardly. She’d been worrying about how to address Otto’s mother all morning, now that she’d realised that this very ordinary-looking woman must in fact be a titled aristocrat. ‘Madam Baroness, may I ask you something?’
The woman had looked at her with eyes full of pity. ‘I’m sure there are many things you wish to know,’ she said in her softly accented voice.
‘Why is the castle like this?’ Flora asked. It was the first question that came into her head from the many she wanted to ask.
‘Why?’ The woman shrugged and turned back to the potato soup she was making. ‘It was like this when we arrived four years ago. Goodness knows how he could afford it in the first place.’
Four years ago? But Otto told me this place had been in his family for generations! Flora didn’t know what to ask next. Had she misunderstood him? Was she remembering clearly? She knew she was, but the awful emotions threatening to engulf her meant that she could hardly speak.
She ate her potato soup almost in silence, her brain still teeming with questions, while Otto’s mother sat beside her, talking cheerfully about the weather and asking about the wedding although Flora could scarcely answer her.
Otto returned late that night, tired, dirty and ravenous but obviously in a good mood. Flora and his mother, who had eaten earlier, sat and watched as he devoured a hearty meal of stew and noodles. Between mouth-fuls, he described the thrill of that day’s hunt and the wild boar they had finally brought to ground. There had been, he said, a merry Christmas lunch in the middle of the day, with Glühwein, venison and rich slices of Stollen. The two women had said little, apart from Otto’s mother congratulating him on his successful hunting. Then it had been time for bed.
‘Otto,’ Flora had said tentatively. She was sitting on the edge of the mattress in her nightie, feeling sick and nervous.
‘Mmm?’ He was stripping off, a musky, sweaty smell wafting across the room towards her.
‘Don’t you have anything to say to me?’ Flora said pleadingly. She had hoped that he would apologise for hitting her the night before, or begin to explain the difference between the stories he had spun and the reality she found herself living in.
He turned around then, a half smile on his face. ‘Not at all, my dear. Should I?’
She stared at him, confused. ‘I-I-I have a present for you,’ she said, gesturing at the bedside table as though the gift might restore the old Otto to her. ‘For Christmas.’
‘How kind. I will open it later. For now, I have a present for you too.’ He pushed down his boxer shorts, revealing his short thick penis which was already standing in semi-erection. It was the first time she had seen it. He took it in one hand and began to massage the shaft so that it soon stood firm and erect, a fat little barrel with a dark top. ‘Your life is going to be quite different from what you expected, and I can’t pretend that it doesn’t give me pleasure to know that I’ve accomplished exactly what I set out to achieve. In fact, I find it somewhat exciting.’ He moved towards the bed and, when he reached her, pushed her down on the floor and directed the tip of his penis towards her face. ‘Come, you know what to do, I’m sure … Take it in your mouth.’
Flora felt horror seize her, but she was also afraid. He was pressing the musky tip of his penis, its purple head exposed, against her lips. She could smell urine and the dark sweat of his pubic hair. Obediently she opened her mouth and he pushed his penis hard inside. She wanted to gag but instead tried to keep calm and relax. She closed her eyes. This is what wives do for their husbands, she told herself. This is normal.
She sucked cautiously. Otto moaned and began to thrust harder into her mouth. She moved her mouth up and down the shaft, and a moment later it was flooded with hot, salty, thick liquid. He pulled his penis out, already limp and reduced to just a few centimetres in length. Flora coughed and retched then, with a monumental effort, swallowed. It left a strange, burning, hollow feeling in the back of her throat.
‘Oh,’ said Otto, disappointed. ‘Has it gone? You’ve taken it down? Ah, well, you’ll learn next time, I’m sure.’
There was no further discussion. A few minutes later he was in bed beside her and the light was turned out.
The next few days followed the same pattern: Flora would wake alone, find Otto’s mother in the kitchen and then pass the day by herself. On the second day, her handbag appeared in their room but the mobile phone inside it had gone. She looked about the castle for a telephone but, when she asked Otto’s mother, was told in an apologetic tone that there was only one telephone and it was locked inside Otto’s study where no one else was allowed.
‘We are a little remote here,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘It is a simple life. Secluded but happy. I’m sure you will grow to like it.’ Her eyes had shown some level of understanding but Flora was still unable to express herself properly. She was too confused and ashamed.
When she’d asked Otto where her phone was, he’d said brusquely, ‘Not yet. You will simply tell stupid stories to your family. When all this is sorted out and we understand each other perfectly – then you will get your telephone back. The newlyweds are not to be disturbed right now, huh? But that reminds me …’
He’d taken her up yet another staircase to a small room at the top of one of the turrets, set behind a red wooden door with a large lock on it. Inside was the most modern part of the castle Flora had yet seen: a large desk held a computer, printer, fax machine and telephone. Otto went to the desk, sat down and logged into his computer. ‘We must reassure your sister,’ he told her. ‘Com
e here. Call up your email account.’
She’d gone round and obediently opened her email. He’d watched carefully as she signed in. There were several messages waiting for her, mostly from Octavia and Vicky.
‘We shall reply.’ When he’d read and dictated replies to the messages, Otto seemed satisfied, although she wondered what the others would think when they received the slightly stilted messages that surely didn’t sound like something Flora herself would write. ‘That will keep them happy for now,’ he’d said. ‘But there is something else …’ He’d closed her account and opened a new one. ‘This is your email address from now on – in your married name. Let us write a message to your sister and Vicky telling them that this is now where they should contact you.’
Flora had been unable to protest, too frightened to speak up. What exactly was Otto capable of? He’d already hit her. He was already forcing her to give him oral sex every night.
‘There. Now we shall be able to control what comes in and what goes out.’ He’d smiled up at her, a kind of warmth and approval in his brown eyes. ‘Very good, my dear. Very good.’
Since then, she’d not been allowed back into the office, or anywhere near the computer or telephone. She had no idea if Octavia or Vicky had replied, or what they’d thought of her strange emails.
Each morning, she woke up feeling dazed, still wondering if she was in some kind of dream and if today was the day that Otto would turn to her, laugh, and tell her he’d been playing a silly trick on her. She wasn’t really a virtual prisoner here in his wreck of a home. They could go back to London now, to the comfort of the Chelsea house. But she pushed those images out of her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to think of home. It was too painful.
What have I done? Flora asked herself in the night, as she lay next to Otto, shrouded by those suffocating heavy curtains. Oh, Octavia … I’m so sorry. I need you now. More than I ever have before.
53
Ethan stayed on for some business meetings – the enjoyable kind held on the decks of superyachts, with oligarchs in shorts and sunglasses making deals over frozen margaritas – while Octavia returned to London. She was glad to be home, even if the Chelsea house held a mournful air for her ever since Flora had left.
Steve brought her bags in while Octavia took off her white blazer and shook out her hair in front of the hall mirror. She heard footsteps and looked up to see Vicky coming down the stairs, her face streaked with tears.
‘Thank goodness you’re back, Octavia,’ she said, hugging her.
‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying?’ Octavia stepped back to look at her cousin’s face.
‘Come and see this.’
They went quickly up to Vicky’s office, Octavia wondering what this was all about. Vicky led her over to her desk and showed her an email open on the screen. She gestured for Octavia to read it. ‘I’ve been sacked. Flora’s sacked me.’
Octavia gasped, and scanned it quickly. It was a brief notice, informing Vicky in formal terms of her immediate dismissal. ‘But … why?’ she breathed, stunned.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Vicky sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘All I know is that I sent her an email asking if Otto had been in London. And I got this in reply.’
‘Why would he be in London without telling us?’ Octavia frowned.
‘I can’t even be sure it was him,’ Vicky said, ‘but I thought I saw him, and wondered if he’d popped over on one of his flying visits, though I thought it was odd he wouldn’t bring Flora with him. And now this.’
Octavia sank down in the chair by the desk. ‘Well, the first thing is, you’re not sacked. I don’t know the legal standpoint but if this is what Flora wants – I’ll just hire you again. So don’t worry about that.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘If you still want to work for a couple of crazies like us, that is?
‘You know I do,’ cried Vicky. ‘Thanks, Octavia. But why would she want to sack me?’
Octavia looked again at the message. ‘It’s very odd.’
Vicky nodded. ‘I agree. This doesn’t sound like Flora at all, does it?’
‘Look at the way it ends. “With the compliments of the Baroness von Schwetten”.’
‘Perhaps it’s just a standard email sign-off,’ Vicky suggested. ‘An automatic signature.’
‘Mmm. Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s just – not like her.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘I’ll call her,’ Octavia said decisively. ‘It’s time we stopped all this nonsense and got to the bottom of what she’s playing at. This time I won’t take no for an answer.’
It was easier said than done. Flora’s mobile went to voicemail, and the castle landline rang unanswered for long minutes.
Octavia sighed in frustration and rubbed her eyes. How the hell could it be so hard to talk to someone? She rattled off an email to her sister, asking what she was playing at by sacking Vicky, and requesting her to call at once. Otherwise Octavia was going to get on the first plane out there and sort this out face to face.
She pushed Send and watched the message appear at the bottom of the column. There. That was all she could do for now.
‘We’ll just have to wait for her to get back to us. I’ll give it twenty-four hours,’ she said to Vicky. ‘Then we’ll have to think of something else.’
Ethan flew in early the next morning and arranged to meet Octavia for breakfast at a French café in Piccadilly. He looked a little jaded when she saw him, and she guessed he’d been partying hard with the latest Russian billionaire to cross his path.
‘Good time, darling?’ she cooed. ‘Did you work hard?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ he said in his Aussie drawl. ‘You know me. Always hard at it.’
‘Mmm. I hope so.’ She gave him a flirtatious look over the top of her sunglasses. The waitress brought steaming cups of caffe latte and set them on the table while Octavia contemplated being able to forget her anxiety about Flora for a little while in Ethan’s arms. ‘Why were you so eager to see me?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got a bit of news, actually. I wanted to tell you myself.’
‘Oh, yes?’ She tried to quell the anxiety rising inside her.
‘There’s good news and bad news. Good news is that the deal for Noble’s has been done and dusted. I’ve arranged for us to go there tomorrow and take a tour of our new possession.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ she said happily. At least this was going right.
‘But … something’s happened that’s cast a bit of a downer over proceedings. Old man Radcliffe has only gone and had a heart attack. He’s dead.’
‘Oh.’ Octavia blinked as she took the news in. ‘But, Ethan, that’s dreadful.’
‘I’ll say. It puts us in a sticky PR position.’
‘Yes, but … it’s not just that, is it?’ She remembered Amanda Radcliffe, the flashing-eyed brunette with the malicious curl to her mouth. That night Octavia had thrown water over her seemed so far away, as though it had happened to two other people. She felt she’d been a silly child back then. She remembered too how furious she’d been when Amanda had ordered her out of Noble’s. That all seemed so petty now. Especially in the face of death. ‘Poor girl,’ she whispered. Suddenly the idea of taking Noble’s from her rival, which had once seemed so funny and clever, appeared distinctly less attractive.
‘Huh?’ Ethan picked up a croissant, ripped a piece off and dipped it in his coffee. ‘What poor girl? The point is, it’s not going to ease the takeover in terms of staff morale, and so on. So we’ll need to bear that in mind when we go there.’
Octavia looked over at him. He was just as handsome as ever, his short dark-blond hair delightfully ruffled over those sharp blue-hazel eyes. She wanted him just as much as she ever had. All he had to do was give her the cold shoulder and withhold that fabulous body from her and she’d always surrender and do whatever he liked. But somewhere at the heart of their relationship she had the sense that something was missing. Why couldn’t she confide in him about Flora? Her tru
e feelings of loss and hurt and abandonment? She could only forget them when Ethan was making love to her, taking her to the place where all that mattered was sensual pleasure. But that didn’t seem right.
He looked up and saw her worried frown.
‘Hey, don’t sweat it, honey,’ he said, putting a hand on hers and rubbing it gently. ‘They’ll all forget the old man in no time. It won’t be a problem, I promise.’
54
Flora had been in the castle almost a week when, at breakfast with Otto’s mother, she said, ‘Madam Baroness, does Otto go hunting every day?’
‘It is unusual for him to go as often as this. Castle business often keeps him here. But he loves it.’ The woman looked embarrassed. ‘I wish you would not call me Baroness, my dear.’
‘Oh … but …’ Flora was puzzled. She had assumed that Otto’s mother must be a baroness. Or else how had he inherited the title?
Otto’s mother got up and picked up their breakfast dishes to take to the sink. ‘I am Frau Gestenholtz, that is all. But you may call me Marthe if you wish.’
The Germanic pronunciation of Marthe sounded like ‘martyr’.
‘Then – how can Otto be a baron?’ ventured Flora.
‘Best not to ask,’ Marthe replied brusquely, walking to the sink. ‘Otto does what he wishes. You will learn. There is no point in challenging him. Just accept.’
* * *
But Flora would not just accept. When she was alone, she spent long hours searching the castle, certain she would eventually find some way of contacting Octavia or Vicky. Perhaps there was a hidden key to Otto’s study. Perhaps there was another way into it. All the time, she was constantly watching and planning, noting everything that happened and everything she saw. One day Otto might be careless and leave his mobile where she could find it. All she needed was that one slip-up and she would be free.
