Monica walked unchallenged past the doorman into the large foyer which had glass all around. The building that housed Maskell HD stretched for floors above her. She was in the so-called City of London, the financial and legal heart of Britain’s capital city. Around here the streets were busy with men and women in suits, taxis and couriers, all keeping the world of money and legal services humming energetically along. Monica dug in the new handbag she had bought at the weekend for the letter that had arrived just days before. She had assumed that the letter would go to Monique’s house rather than to hers and she had felt rather self-conscious opening it but knew she needed the details it contained. When Monica saw it was written to Monique at her own address, as an explanation to herself she had concocted a story about them losing her address and having to work it out from the phone number she, Monica, had used when she had called previously. However hard she tried, though, that story barely stood up to scrutiny. As a result, Monica had felt somehow disappointed. She guessed Monique Chase was not going to show and that it had been herself, Monica, who had put in the application whilst in one of her fugues.

The interview, whilst it quickly seemed to be losing the importance that Monica had anticipated it would have, had become so fixed in Monica’s mind that she felt she had to come, almost on a ritualistic basis. She had enjoyed going out on the weekend and buying a smart fitted blouse of striped maroon and royal blue and a black trouser suit of the kind the women in the building society wore, well, the important ones round the back, not the ones at the counter. Her new outfit had given her some confidence, though now she realised this was now beginning to flag.

Another thing, however, had stopped her turning back as she had travelled here on the underground train and that was that she felt she would be too embarrassed to call Harcourt later and confess she had run away from coming here. Maybe, she told herself, she had to come because here was where she was destined to stumble across some evidence about Monique and her fate. Now that she guessed she would not encounter the woman in the flesh, Monica realised her secondary explanation, that Monique had been murdered and her ghost was now using Monica to get the truth revealed, was coming to the fore.

“Monique Chase?”

Monica almost yelped as she was startled by the name. She quickly regained her cool and scanned the lobby, but no-one else there was responding to the call.

“Ms. Chase?”

Monica turned to face the young man in a smart suit with the company’s logo on a discreet lapel badge.

“I’m Nathaniel, Nathaniel Mercer, I’m here to take you up to the interview. The panel is waiting.”

“Oh, oh, right. Am I late?”

“No, you’re early, but you’re the first of the day and it’s always useful to get a little ahead of schedule if there’s the chance.”

“Yes, yes, I quite understand.”

“Great, if you’ll follow me.”

Nathaniel led Monica the short way to the glass-sided lift and in moments they were rising up the building. Monica kept her eyes on the floor indicator having no desire to gaze out of the lift’s glass wall to look down on the rapidly shrinking lobby floor. Fortunately the ride was soon over. Monica was led through a lounge where she guessed subsequent interviewees would wait, and into a large office. The blinds behind the interviewers let in grey light and obscured any view across London. Monica took the seat indicated and Nathaniel disappeared. In that instant Monica suddenly felt all confidence rush from her. It had been four years since she had last been interviewed and on this occasion she felt such a fool. Maybe the best bet was to cut and run, blurting something about it being a mistake or that she felt sick or had a nose bleed: she had seen that used in some eighties movie on television as an excuse. Monica’s mind tumbled through all the options trying to select the best one. Then the man in the centre of the panel of three spoke and she guessed it was probably too late to make an escape without feeling total, painful, embarrassment.

“Thank you for coming this morning, Ms. Chase.”

Monica gestured to show the pleasure was hers. Though, in fact, she was less certain about the whole exercise than ever and now worried staying here would prove more humiliating than running away: she mentally scolded herself for not baling out when she had the chance. Now she wondered whether her legs would even be able to carry her if she made a break for the door.

“I’m Daniel Parry, Partner for Claims, this is Susan Waddell, my deputy and Lisa Bailey who is from Personnel. The interview will last about forty-five minutes and then there will be time for questions.”

“Right, that’s, erm, fine.”

Suddenly Monica felt truly unnerved. This was hardly the time for a fugue to come on, but she sensed the first inklings of one. At least, she thought, it would spare her from witnessing her own humiliation. Then, suddenly, she felt as if her clothes had been changed. She looked down to see that the plain black trouser suit had been replaced by a different outfit. She now wore a tight fitted jacket of black with numerous dark pink pinstripes. It was buttoned tight against her and she knew that that undone it would reveal that a dark grey silk camisole was all that lay beneath it. Rather than her trousers, there was a tight pencil skirt in the same pinstripe, stopping just above the knee. Her legs naturally wore stockings and her feet were sheathed in pointed, sharp heeled, patent leather boots which barely crested her ankle. Though she was seeing herself in different clothes, Monica quickly realised that there was something different about this fugue.

At first she wondered if she was having a flashback to when Monique had joined CHMD. In itself that would be odd because it would be out of chronological order with what she had been experiencing up to now. However, as she looked across at the same three people on the interview panel as the ones she had just been introduced to, she realised that something different was happening. For an instant she worried that Monique was somehow spilling through into her perception. She looked down at her lap and tried to make the skirt that was stretched so taut between her thighs turn back into the loose black trousers she had put on this morning. However, the interview was underway and Monica had to abandon her attempts to sweep away the illusion she was experiencing.

“Ms. Chase, Monique, may I call you Monique…” Parry began, giving a pleasant smile as he did.

“Erm, yes.”

“…You’ve had a break recently from working in the legal profession…”

“Erm, have I? Er yes.” Monica could not see how a couple of days leave could be that important.

“But you’re interested in returning to a job and here with us. Could you outline your thinking behind this move?”

“Erm, yes.” Monica hesitated, but then her mind felt flooded with a burst of confidence and an explanation, though she was uncertain where it originated, came to her lips and seemed just what Parry would want to hear. “I was working in a less taxing job as my mother has been ill. It allowed me an opportunity to get over to see her in France pretty often. She died earlier this year and I spent some time in Lyons sorting her affairs out. My father passed away when I was at university and I was an only child. Now everything is in order and my mother’s affairs are settled I have the opportunity to really develop my career, I can focus my energy on this. I do not feel my time was wasted with Blackburn & Frost as it has given me a good grasp of the grass roots claims that are becoming increasingly common in the UK today. Of course, being in a small pool I was a large fish and I feel the switch to working for Maskell HD would offer different rather than heavily greater challenges.”

Monica sat back, stunned by what had just come from her; very conscious too, that she had spoken with that French-inflected voice she had heard Monique using. For a moment she was worried that the panel would think she was playing some kind of joke on them, but then imagined that it would simply reinforce the false impression they had been given of her and make it seem more credible.

“Thank you.” Parry responded, seemingly satisfied with the response. “Yes, this is not the 1980s, we don’t expect our employees to burn themselves out at the expense of everything else in their lives. You seem to have adopted a well-thought out strategy to keep in touch with the legal profession whilst responding to family commitments. These days we seek balanced individuals rather than the fanatics.”

“Thank you.”

Monica said, a little surprised, but buoyed by feeling she had been made at least one successful response, even if all the stuff about her family was fabricated. She would deal with that later. The interview seemed to pass very quickly and it was not long before Lisa Bailey was asking the concluding question.

“And, Monique, how do you relax? As Daniel has outlined in this decade we are seeking staff who can sustain a career not flash brightly for a couple of years and then fade away.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, I agree.” Monica filled as she struggled to think what she could say that was more positive than ‘I sit on the sofa with a pizza and watch DVDs’. Yet, it quickly seemed to come to her. “I swim…” that in at least was true, once in a while. “I fence…” something she had done for quite a few semesters at university, though she never thought herself at all good, “the epee. I also enjoy cycling,” she owned a bicycle which had not been out of her garage in months, “I guess that is the Frenchwoman in me. I naturally enjoy travelling and photography forms a part of that,” she had actually indulged in a top quality digital camera the previous Christmas, “and dining and reading French literature.” Monica ended with a smile.

Bailey seemed pleased with this list, well rounded and yet not too crowded. She mentioned the sports facilities that employees had access to and the dining events the company hosted. She also suggested that with her language skills, if she was employed by the company, Monique could find herself tackling claims across the EU. Now was the time for her own questions. Monica did not find this too difficult. She asked about the size and nature of the team she would be working in, the nature of some of the cases they had been tackling recently and about the pension rights. It gave her a frisson to pretend that any of this was within her grasp. The panel seemed happy to answer her and Monica chuckled inside at how well she had deluded them, whilst acknowledging Monique’s help. As she knew the interview was coming to an end she found herself glancing at her sleek skirt and running her hand over the jacket, pressing down on the silk below. It was all she could do to stop herself giving a pleasurable shiver at the sensation. She really wished she could dress this way herself for work, she was sure it would give her a strength.

“Thank you Monique. We have your details and we should be able to let you know by the end of tomorrow whether you have been successful in securing the post.”

“That’s great.” Monica said, partly relieved it was all over; she doubted if she would ever hear from the company again.

Monica stood and saw that she was indeed in the black suit in which she had turned up that morning. She shook hands with each of the panel and was shown out. As she rode down in the glass lift, Monica almost laughed out loud. She wished she could have talked about this at work, about how she had pulled the wool over the eyes of a company as grand as Maskell HD. However, as she walked out of the building she realised something else. No Monique Chase had shown up for the interview, there had only been her at the appointed time and no-one else. For a moment she guessed that the real Monique might have called and cancelled, but then she realised they would have then been surprised when she showed up all the same. Well, if nothing else, this morning’s visit had proven one thing, that there was no Monique Chase around. What did that mean? Monica was increasingly convinced that she had existed and that her own fugues were the way for Monique’s demise to be uncovered and revealed to the world. Monica knew she had to continue finding out more.

Then, with her resolve reinforced, Monica remembered something suddenly. The fugue in the interview room had been different to those of before: rather than plunging into Monique’s life the Frenchwoman’s had come to hers. What did this mean for the development of Monica’s condition? However, as she walked to the underground station thinking over this, she felt reassured. Maybe with Dr. Harcourt’s treatment the fugues were coming under control. That one could certainly be considered less severe than the previous ones. Rather than seeing events of four years ago and sensing everything Monique had sensed, in the interview room Monica had managed to keep the view of the panel and answer their questions, only her perception of herself had shifted and she had been able to manage that. This realisation lifted Monica and she looked forward to resuming her old life, unplagued with these visions.

At the underground station entrance she hesitated. Was it advisable with the improvement in the fugues to pursue her enquiries in Docklands? Would a visit reverse the gains she seemed to be making in eliminating the fugues or conversely, would uncovering more about Monique’s life help bring them entirely to an end? Was there really any harm in pressing on, after all, she had taken the day off, she might as well put it to good use, rather than going home to sit and watch daytime television. At first she had been hesitant about using her leave, but returning from her day off the other week had shown how much the company had missed her and Mr. Blackburn had made the effort to come and see her to say how vital she was to the company. As Monica plunged into the underground she again wondered, though, whether finding the flat she had seen in her vision would actually help. However, she then remembered not only how mild the last fugue had been, but also how well she had fooled the interviewers. Bolstered by recognising those facts, Monica decided to continue as originally planned.

The taxi pulled into a quiet cul-de-sac in Docklands. This part of East London, which abutted the City, had undergone a huge transformation in the past three decades. It had changed from being an area of run-down docks and boarded up pubs to house some of the most expensive property in London, probably the whole country. Companies had followed; the skyline was dominated by the huge Canary Wharf tower and the Citibank building that stood close to it. Some of the luxury flats were housed in the shells of old warehouses and old dock berths had become marinas. The address that Monica had given the taxi driver brought her to a much newer block, only six storeys high. A discreet ‘for sale’ sign, advertising ‘top floor flat’ was fixed to the wall.

“Wait here.” Monica told the driver and eased from the back seat.

She walked over to the front door to the block. There were a row of bell buttons; most had names on them. The one she was looking for, Monica remembered was right at the top. From the front she could not see it, but found that going down a narrow passage between this block and the next, very similar one, she could get round the back. It looked out over one of the gentrified stretches of water and on the other side, reached by a slender bridge originating farther up the street, was a bar and a gym. Away from the Canary Wharf complex, shops and other outlets in Docklands were a rare commodity, but the residents had the money and the access to transport to get what they needed. The lack of high streets and commercial areas meant that even now in the middle of the day, in the heart of a city, she could make out the lapping of the water. Looking back at the block she realised that from here, too, she could see the balcony that interested her. It was bare and she could even see well into the empty flat behind it.

Monica had hardly expected to find Monique Chase whiling away the day up there, but she was a little disappointed to find that her last lead on the woman had evaporated. Monica realised this was the flat that was up for sale and again that gave her a frisson, maybe the trail was not entirely cold and she could find some more clues. She went to the front again and noted the estate agents’ details from the sign. As she got into the taxi and ordered it to the nearest underground station, Monica knew she would soon be back and would get to walk inside the apartment that she had to believe had once belonged to Monique Chase, the woman whose life seemed to be so entwined with her own.

Monica manhandled the shopping bag through the door in front of her. She felt a little guilty to realise she was repeating her behaviour of her previous day off. However, she had found herself falling in love with this kind of boots when she had seen them on a woman on the underground. It had been so easy to get off the train in the heart of the West End and locate a pair for herself. It was only when she was back on the train heading home that she had realised that when thinking about them in the shop she had envisaged them as if Monique was wearing them with her outfits. They had seemed fine with the suit she was wearing at the moment, but of course that was not the kind of thing she habitually wore; she did not imagine it reappearing now from the top of her wardrobe until the next wedding she was invited to.

On the doormat was a card from the post office saying there was a parcel waiting for collection. That was curious; she was not expecting anything. She wondered if it had been sent to the wrong address, or, as sometimes occurred, it was for a previous resident of her property. Then again, it did say ‘M.L. Chase’ on the card. Her interest was piqued. Abandoning her shopping bag she headed back out and twenty minutes later was collecting the large and soft package. What was further intriguing was that it appeared to have come from Germany. Monica tore the flap of the package open without leaving the sorting office. It revealed soft black leather, a jacket she guessed, and instantly Monica assumed it was evidence that she had been ordering things whilst in one of her fugues. She knew the post office was not going to be interested now she had collected it and she would have to contact the company anyway to guarantee that they would take it back and refund her. Walking home, her initial hostile reaction began mellowing and she thought, maybe, if it looked alright, she could keep it; it might go well with her new boots, though, for now, she could not really envisage where she would either those or this jacket.

Monica was impatient as she again went through the door of her flat. She tore open the package and pulled out a short leather jacket with buttons and narrow lapels. As she did, a skirt fell free. Monica bent to retrieve it. Like the jacket it was of soft, smooth black leather and reached to her knee. Monica found it was exciting to think of wearing these clothes. She wondered why that was. Admittedly they did feel pleasant to the touch, but maybe it was reinforced by the fact that these were the kind of thing that Monique would wear. For the first time Monica realised that she had almost developed a Pavlovian association between Monique’s appearance and the sexual activity that she indulged in. However much Monica might protest her happiness in the way she lived, she was learning that her body might have different thoughts on the matter. Monica was almost quivering as she walked into her bedroom. Despite her concerns about dropping into fugues she almost wished that she could provoke one, in the hope that wearing these clothes would subsequently bring her closer to the pleasurable sensations she was sure she would experience this time.

Monica lay the leather clothes on the bed. She fetched the boots and put them on the floor. Then she went first to her wardrobe to find the powder blue top and then to her chest of drawers for the silk underwear. In a handful of minutes Monica was dressed in silk over her breasts and her sex. Stockings clung to her legs as she moved to step into the leather skirt. As it slid up her legs she loved the sensation. She closed the small zip on her bum and smoothed the leather that covered her thighs. It had a short slit at the back so was not tight as Monica moved, but it felt snug and encompassing. She found she liked the aroma and loved the discreet shine from it that marked out the material from all others. She pulled on the top liking how it hugged her, its warm texture contrasting with the cool leather. The jacket soon joined it and Monica enjoyed the feeling of protection it gave her. She found it also made her feel both sophisticated and distinctive.

Now Monica sat on the bed and took the black suede knee-length boots from their box. All the boots that Monica had ever owned had been practical ones for hiking or Wellington boots for the rain. These were sleek and had a nice heel. As she zipped them up, pulling them tight to her calves, Monica wondered why she had never bought a pair like these before. She stood up and walked to the mirror. She was slightly startled by the woman she saw reflected, dressed in black, in clothes of sensuous fabrics, with her hair falling down her leathered back. Monica was surprised at how different she appeared to the way she knew she had looked just weeks earlier. Then, though, a more unnerving thought came to her, something she realised she had been suppressing and that was how much like Monique she now appeared. Was she really able any longer to deny what Harcourt had told her?

Then it was as if the world shuddered for an instant. Monica wondered if she was slipping into a fugue. Really she only had herself to blame. Monique admired the new clothes in the mirror. They were smart enough that she could wear this outfit to work, she knew. Then she remembered something she had to do and walked to the telephone. She punched in the number that she recollected.

“City Vista Estates.”

“Yes, it’s about a place you’ve got for sale in Docklands …”

A young man at the other end confirmed it was on the market and Monique quickly arranged a visit to the flat she had seen earlier. Now that the break from Robert was final she needed to get a place of her own, a real ‘pad’ as Carole would have termed it. She liked the quiet surroundings of the one she had seen from the outside earlier in the day and yet it was close to all the facilities of Central London. Monique made the appointment for that weekend and was excited by it, imaging all the wonderful new furniture she would put into it. She put down the receiver, pleased that that was sorted. She ran her hand slowly over the leather of her skirt, thinking about what men she might encounter in Docklands and who she might deem worthy to bring back to her new flat.

Monica suddenly felt a jolt. She glanced down at her leather-coated thigh and thought she was still in the fugue. Had it been her who had just phoned about the flat or had she witnessed the scene through Monique’s eyes when she had originally bought that place? If so, that would be another incident that had appeared to her out of sequence. Was this a sign that the fugues were coming to an end or simply entering some more chaotic phase? This one had been similar to the one at the interview, not her fully dropping into Monique’s life rather a hybrid experience somewhere between the two of them. She guessed the clothes that she was wearing had provoked it. After all, she had not been conscious of ordering the leathers and maybe even her desire for the boots had originated from the Frenchwoman’s thoughts coming into her mind rather than a genuine wish on her part.

Monica threw off the jacket and quickly tugged the top away too. In less time than it had taken to put on the clothes she had stripped them off and sat naked, suppressing distant siren voices tempting her to toy with herself like the sexy woman she was. Monica now regretted trying to bring on a fugue. She worried that she may have reversed the good work that had begun to become apparent today. To some extent, her provoking a fugue was like indulging in a bad habit like smoking or drinking when you were supposed to be giving it up. She realised she enjoyed the effects and her body craved the sexual excitement of being Monique, but Monica had to recognise the harm it did her. Whilst not being as extreme as dropping right into a fugue, this state, as at the interview and just now on the phone, where her and Monique’s identities blurred, would hardly help her to live a normal life.

Monica stood up with new resolve. She bundled the clothes into a large carrier bag and stuffed them towards the back of her hall cupboard. She fetched clothes that were comfortable in a different way, baggy and familiar rather than soft and sexy. She scrubbed the make-up from her face and slumped in front of her television wrapped in her duvet and equipped with a large bowl of ice cream. This was happiness; she had found it and had to avoid doing things that upset it.

“Monica, come in.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

Monica walked into her boss’s office in response to his call. His stare seemed hard and she was glad that this morning she had reverted to her usual office ‘uniform’ of bright sweater and long skirt and tried to dismiss any thought of her new purchases. She had not had the heart to throw them away, but felt she needed to avoid them for now. As it was, she could never have envisaged digging them out for anything but dress-up at home, never wearing them to work where things were pretty traditional. Blackburn & Frost, after all, was a small West London suburban firm, not some high profile one in the City.

“Sit down Monica.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

It was not that Blackburn was overly jolly most days, but today his tone was more sober than usual and Monica seemed certain she had done something wrong. Maybe the company was hitting a rough patch and they were going to let her go.

“Monica, how long have you worked with us?”

“Erm, about four years.”

“Yes, you’re still pretty much a newcomer really, aren’t you?”

“Well, I know my way around the …”

“No, those are passing things. I mean in terms of being really embedded in this company.”

Monica did not know how to respond. “Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

“But you’ve been here long enough to know we do things in the traditional ways. I know we have to be seen to kow-tow to Brussels and the liberals that have taken over since Lady Thatcher prematurely stepped down, but that doesn’t mean that we have to be happy about it. There are ways around things like this Working Time Directive and such like, aren’t there? Loyal workers know that. Do you know it Monica?”

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. You may think you know it, but I have yet to see much evidence that you work by traditional means. I’m not talking about computers and faxing, that’s all part of modern business, what I mean is do you have loyalty to the firm at the heart of all that you do?”

“Erm, yes, I think so.”

Blackburn shook his head tutting as if she had given the wrong answer. “No, no, Monica, don’t delude yourself, please. There’s been many a time when I leave this office at 6.30 to find you’ve gone. What sort of example is that to these temporary staff? I have to leave work on your desk; that means no security for important documents. Why? Because you’ve disappeared an hour earlier.”

Monica knew Blackburn was rarely in the office past four let alone five o’clock. “Erm, my hours are…”

“Your hours here are whatever are needed. Don’t you think your attitude smacks of ingratitude?”

“No, Mr. Blackburn, I am grateful.”

Blackburn gave her a repeated expression of disapproval. “And these days of leave; they’ve really woken me up to what is going on with you. I’ve realised I’ve not been paying enough attention to you and instead just concentrating just on the temps, so, I’ve been blind to what other staff have been getting away with. These days off: one last week, one this week; do you know how much work built up while you were away?”

“I’ve cleared everything.”

“I don’t know how you manage that. Whenever I see you at your desk these days you seem to be staring off into space.”

“Yes, but I’ve had some problems.” On this point Monica felt she could not contest Mr. Blackburn’s accusation.

“What? Are you not fit enough to do this job?”

“No, it’s not that. I just needed a bit of a break, some time off.”

“Yes, maybe, but that was 48 hours for this company that you decided to use for yourself. Either you are fit enough to work here or you leave, not this halfway house of coming in when you feel good enough. You don’t know the chaos it causes. It is so inefficient to have you winding down and then having to start from cold two days later. It’s a poor example to the others and I know we lose business as a result of not being able to respond fast enough for clients. We have to face it that a lot of that difficulty comes down to you.”

“But I’m entitled…”

“You’re entitled?” Blackburn sneered. “Were you entitled to get a job here? How long had you been unemployed for? I shouldn’t have listened to Harry; I should have paid more attention to my own instincts. Anyone who ends up unemployed does so because they haven’t got the energy or guts or ability to find a job. I can’t think how much money you’ve lost us these four years. I should have seen it sooner. I suppose I should be grateful, these two days you took off showed up what a drag you are on the firm. You shot yourself in the foot there. You weren’t able to conceal your slacking. Well, from now on that’s going to stop. I’m introducing a keycard system, it’s mainly for all these temps, you get this card you put in when you come on and again when you leave, or visit the toilet or whatever. It counts only when you are actually working. Do you understand?”

“Yes, they have them in some civil service offices.”

“No, not like this one, it’s a real business design. For you, you’ll find you cannot sneak off early. I’ll be generous and set your time to six, though obviously when I’m working late I’ll expect you to follow me out. To make up for all the backlog you’ve created, you’re going to have to do Saturday mornings. Not the whole day, just the mornings until lunch at one. Okay?”

Monica felt she should be angry, but then again, maybe Blackburn was right. She realised that though she had not noticed it, dipping into Monique’s life had distorted her attitudes to things. Monique worked in very different circumstances and there was no guarantee that even the things Monica had witnessed had been real, they might simply stem from her own fantasies. Working until six would not be too hard, by then the traffic was calming down and the buses were less crowded. She bought her groceries in the evening during the week, so there was no worry about losing Saturday morning. In fact it would encourage her to get up promptly and not waste the day. There was never much to do at home anyway.

“Okay?” Blackburn repeated.

Monica realised she had drifted deep into her own thoughts. “Sorry, Mr. Blackburn. Yes, I won’t let you down.”

“Well, you know there’s a score of women I could have filling your shoes. You don’t have any unique skills, I could pick up a replacement just like that.” He clicked his fingers.

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn.” Monica responded, suddenly certain that he was right.

Monica knew she could say nothing about the fugues and was glad she had kept them secret. She did not want Mr. Blackburn to think she was going to fall ill or ask for time off to deal with them. She guessed she had been lucky to have been able to start addressing the problem and uncovering more about Monique in order to eliminate the fugues entirely. She was glad the appointment to view the flat was in the afternoon on Saturday and she would not have to cancel it.

“I am not a nasty man, Monica, I recognise you may need to adjust to working Saturdays, so we won’t start until next week, okay? But let’s not have you taking any more leave. British workers are lazy enough as it is without all this holiday we’re supposed to give. We need to be like Taiwan, they come in every day if necessary. Bear that in mind.” It sounded like the conversation was at an end.

“I will, Mr. Blackburn.” Monica concluded and walked quietly out.

Monica guessed Mr. Blackburn’s policy was right and could benefit her too. After all, the days she had taken off had simply ended up with her raiding her rainy day fund, which might currently be in a healthy state but was not bottomless. Monica felt her final words to Mr. Blackburn were genuine and would form the basis of her behaviour from now on.

Monica woke up slowly. She glanced at the clock: she had overslept by hours and immediately became conscious of a couple of factors. In one way it was best that she had done the rare thing and slept through her alarm this weekend as it would be the last Saturday that she would have a lie-in and not have to get to work. Monica decided to invest in a couple more alarm clocks. She guessed it would not be too bad going in on the Saturday as she would be setting off well before the shoppers and it would be just the shop assistants that she would be sharing the bus with. The second thought was that all of that was at least a week away and something else, the visit to Monique’s flat, was currently a more pressing event.

Almost feeling guilty, Monica walked to the hall cupboard and pulled out the large carrier bag of clothes she had dumped in there the evening of the interview. Since Mr. Blackburn’s talking to her, she felt she was back on the straight and narrow. Sticking to the way she had behaved and dressed before the fugues had started had been a way of indicating that to both herself and her employer. It seemed to have worked as he had not bothered her at all this week and the extra hours had meant she was well ahead of schedule with her work. As a result, she felt rather bad about not asking for more to do especially as she was sure that if the company employed fewer temps they would be better off financially.

Today, however, things were different. With the fugues beginning to fade or certainly to be less intense, Monica was a little concerned that she was going to be closed off from Monique’s life before she had uncovered the message that was supposed to be being communicated to her. She hoped that going to the flat would trigger the revelation. If it did not, Monica had decided that that would be the last attempt she would make to try to push things on. There were few other avenues to pursue. She guessed she could track down Robert Levene, but Monica doubted he would be eager to talk with a stranger about his ex-wife of four years. Monica supposed she could go to locations she had seen in the fugues, but bar the park in Paris, she was uncertain whether she could correctly identify them all and was uncertain if they would even be there four years on. The flat was the one location she knew for certain and it being up for sale was the ideal excuse for her to look inside.

There were two reasons, Monica decided, why she had returned to the clothes. One was that despite her unease over doing it, she felt she had to try to trigger a fugue whilst at the flat and really see the vital things Monique had felt there. The second was that she was worried that seeing her arrive dressed in what she habitually wore the estate agent would disbelieve her story. The flat was located in one of the most expensive parts of London and Monica knew she had to appear at least a little like a woman who could afford to buy it. She guessed estate agents disliked ‘sightseers’ wanting to nose around luxury properties and they might even take one look at her and refuse to let her in. So, despite the worries, Monica knew she had at least to appear a little like Monique.

Monica had forgotten how good the silk underwear felt against her skin until she slipped into it. The tight top just emphasised that further whilst its soft, but clinging weave brought the snug sensation to the rest of her torso and arms. By the time she had zipped up the leather skirt and then the suede boots, she felt transformed. These clothes felt good, but maybe more than that, she realised she liked the confident and admittedly sexy woman she appeared as when wearing them. She put on the subtle make-up that she was becoming familiar with, though guessed that once today’s visit was over she would have to banish it for good to comply with her new regime.

Monica sat in the taxi a little nervously. The enthusiasm and excitement of dressing this way to come and see the flat, Monique’s flat, had kept her going for the first few minutes of the underground train ride out East. As that courage had faded she had hidden her embarrassment behind a book. Yet, whilst she had been unnerved by the admiring looks she had been getting, she could dismiss them by thinking that to those looking at her she was just another nameless person on the train. Now, however, she was alone and though unknown to the taxi driver, knew that she was about to encounter someone who would be meeting her for the first time dressed this way and would probably assume it was her normal attire. The estate agent certainly would not understand that she felt that she would get closer to the ghost she was hunting by dressing like this.

Soon the taxi was in the street outside the block of flats. Monica paid the driver and stepped from the car, smoothing down her skirt as she did, conscious of the sound of her boot heels on the pavement. She told herself she was being silly, Monique wore clothes like these and even sexier stuff without a concern. It was only her own foolish worries that held her back, maybe they always had. If Harcourt was right then she had been programmed to have such concerns and dismissing them would form a real part of reasserting who she actually was. How would Monique have behaved in this circumstance? Would she have been impatient to get inside the flat? Would she be wondering what kind of neighbours she would have if she lived here? Would she think about the men she could pick up in that bar across the bridge?

Monica found herself smoothing the soft leather of her skirt again, loving how it felt beneath her fingers. In contrast to when she was on the underground, she now felt protected by the leather and realised that it could project an air of confidence as well as of sexiness; maybe those two things went hand-in-hand anyway. She stopped walking and stood facing away from the block of flats and intentionally tried to think as Monique would. Part of her worried that she would trigger a fugue, but instead she felt a tingle go through her as if she was being rewarded for doing the right thing. She was very conscious of the leather clothes she wore and how good they made her feel. Uncontrollably she now found herself, rather than remembering the discomfort, becoming proud of all the glances she had attracted on the way here and began thinking about where she might drop in for a drink on the way back. With that thought, and the start of speculations of the type of encounters it might lead to, Monica felt a pleasurable warmness inside. To release the sensation a little, she pressed the palm of her hand against the front of skirt, pushing the silk panties below harder on to the loosening lips of her pussy.

A new car pulled up at the entrance to the cul-de-sac and a man who looked like he was barely old enough to work full-time got out and walked towards her. She knew that youth was often the case with estate agents. His suit had a shiny over-the-top style which must have been in fashion in the eighties, probably before he was born.

“Monique Chase?”

“Er, ah, yes.”

“I told myself, dressed so cool like that you couldn’t be anything other than French.”

“Erm, yes, no. Well, I’m only half-French.”

Monica stuttered apologetically and realised that even that was a lie. She guessed though given that she had ended up booking this appointment as Monique there was some obligation to play along. She laughed at her confusion, but made it seem like a smile. She had heard that if you could impress these callow young men you could twist them around your little finger and it could help a lot when looking to make a house deal go smoothly.

“Well, I must say, you look very cool no matter what nationality you are.”

“Thanks.”

Monica responded neutrally, realising he was probably trying to flatter her to blind her to the estate agent lies he was about to tell her.

“I’m Dean Underwood. Are you ready to go up?”

Monica glanced up at the block of flats. She had a caught a taxi from the Docklands Light Railway station to this place and coming round the corner to it, had found it eerily familiar, less from her previous quick visit, more from having seen it through Monique’s eyes. Though the area had been filling up in the previous few years, it still had that quietness of a district where most people were out at work all day and where few children or elderly people ever strayed. She liked that and she liked the modernity of the area around her. It seemed to have life and determination about it which she guessed fitted Monique’s lifestyle, whereas her own was more at home among the old high streets of western London suburbs.

“Lead on, Dean.” Monica commanded, again smiling as she enjoyed another small game of pretend.

Dean pressed the pass fob to the door and they walked into the small foyer. Soon they were in the slender lift rising to the flat and Monica thought back to sharing it with Carl that night and it brought a pleasant sensation to her sensitive parts. In less than a minute they were walking through the door of the flat. It was bare, but it was easy for Monica to envisage it filled with Monique’s things: the large silver television by the window with the row of DVDs at the foot of it, the painting of an agricultural landscape outside Lyons on the opposite wall, the black leather furniture, it all seemed so appropriate and seeing it that way, somehow Monica felt like she was coming home.

“It’s difficult to really appreciate it as bare as this, but this room can look stunning with some good contemporary furniture, a decent TV and sound system.”

“Oh yes, it does.” Monica responded clearly disconcerting Dean a little.

“And the bedrooms…”

“Are through here.” Monica led the way to the guest room and the small ‘office’ as she thought of it next door.

“You could use that one as an office.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Monica agreed.

Now she stepped into the master bedroom, the ‘mistress bedroom’ as she suddenly thought of it. As Monica turned to look back to Dean to say his piece she found the room had changed. For a start it was now night-time and rather than the bare space she had been seeing, it was filled. There was that extraordinary bed of broad black leather stretched between the steel bars like a huge hammock. On the maroon velvet cover sat the shiny black dress with the tight bodice and the flared skirts; the knee-length boots she felt she had been wearing stood on the floor in front of them. Though out of those clothes, Monica’s body felt constrained and she looked down at what she wore and saw her torso tightly held by the black leather corset that was laced to her, thrusting up her breasts like a valkyrie’s. Below were leather panties with a narrow steel zip and then her legs ran into polished leather boots that stretched right to her thigh. The heels must have risen four or five inches from the floor. Her hands were in long leather gloves stretching beyond her elbows.

Monica was stunned by the outfit. Immediately she thought of the cards for prostitutes jammed into every phone box in central London, but she knew that was far from being Monique’s line of business. Clearly, rather, she played at this, what was it called? Being a ‘dominator’ or whatever the female version was, it could not come to mind. The corset made Monica’s breathing shallow, but she realised that every breath she took made the smooth leather creak in a delicious way and the aroma of the second skin that wrapped her was heady.

Monica could not resist walking to the full-length mirror and looking herself over. As she moved she felt her long pony tail swishing against her naked shoulders adding another pleasurable sensation to what she was experiencing. Tonight, more than ever, Monique looked like a woman in command of her sexuality, really like a sexual predator. Her hair, pulled back sharply from her face, simply added to that impression. Monica admired how good her body looked, her gently tanned skin contrasting with the shiny black of the leather than held it and seemed to give her such strength. She heard movement from the living room and realised that she had not been dressing simply to pose in the mirror but because her trip out to the bar in that dress and those boots had indeed netted a man who now awaited his mistress, his dominatrix, that was the word. Monica smiled as the correct terms suddenly came to mind, and with them, all that they meant in this setting. There was one element missing and looking around Monica saw her whip resting on the bed. She snatched it with her gloved hand and with a skilled move cracked it, the noise seeming so loud in the confines of her bedroom.

Monica walked, or rather strode, from the bedroom. This fugue was more fantastical than the others she had experienced and she wondered if it would descend into psychedelia at any moment. However, how aroused she felt made it difficult to concentrate on anything else bar her sexual drives. In the lounge, on the floor, shackled to the heavy coffee table by handcuffs, sat a young man. He had long hair and was probably in his early twenties. His shirt seemed to have been ripped off to reveal a fit if pale body and his cock stood erect through the open flies of his leather trousers. Monica wondered what she had done to the poor man and whether this was the final revelation of Monique’s life, that her sexuality had run away with her and had ended in some tragedy. However, as she probed Monique’s feelings she realised there was nothing sinister there, just a love of sex in all its forms and a pleasure from occasionally dominating men and playing their ‘Mistress’ with a capital ‘M’ rather than simply being ‘a mistress’.

Monique had snared this man in a bar with gothic overtones in North London. She had to admit she loved playing many roles, and having a darker aspect had appealed to her tonight. This was borne out by the dress and boots left in the bedroom. From what Monica could gather, this man was not a habitual masochist, but that had appealed to Monique more than if he had been; it meant he was similar in outlook to herself, happy to experiment and twist and turn through many facets of human sexuality.

“Whoah!” The man managed as he greedily ran his eyes over Monique.

“Does my attire please you slave?”

Monica was powerless to stop herself acting out the role play Monique had planned.

“Yes, er, yes, Mistress.”

Monica felt the buzz that Monique was getting from this play. On one level she knew it was all a game but on another it was something more genuine and that level was the one that allowed the words to hit home with real sexual force.

Monique lashed out with the whip and expertly put a red stripe up the man’s chest, just shy of his right nipple. “Your pleasure is no concern of mine, slave. These clothes please me; it is for me that I wear them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress, sorry Mistress.”

“Good.” Monique repeated the lash, adding another stripe close to the first.

The man shuddered and initially Monica thought he was wincing with pain. However, seeing that, contrary to what she might have expected, the man’s cock stayed rock hard, she realised it was a quiver of pleasure. Monica walked closer, taking her time, feeling the way she moved in these impossibly long boots. Even more than any of the other clothes she had worn when dropping into Monique’s body, these emphasised what a sexual creature she was, held so tightly in smooth, shiny leather which simultaneously seemed to both offer up and protect her body.

As she approached the table she saw there were more cuffs, broader, leather lined and linked to each other by a longer chain. She casually picked them up and stooped to lock one end to the man’s ankle, above the short but thick-soled boots he wore. She locked the other to the table and only then did she take the key from the other end and release the cuff from the table. She realised that the man could have taken the key himself and got free at any time, but, as she was coming to see, that was not the point, it was about suspending reality so as to better enjoy the game and this was proving to be some hot foreplay. Monica was shocked as rather than releasing the man’s wrist from the handcuffs, she quickly snatched his other and locked them together behind his back. The man was now forced to bend forward and she hauled him up, surprised at her own strength as she brought him on to his knees. Seeing his bare back showing towards her, Monica found herself swept by the urge to lash it. However, something restrained her, knowing that to do that too soon would be to play the game too quickly.

“Slave, what kind of respect is that for your Mistress?”

“Sorry Mistress, sorry for being so bad a slave.”

The man leaned forward on his knees and began kissing the pointed toe of Monica’s boot. She felt such a wicked tingle at witnessing this submission to her will. A fantasy sprinted across her mind of having Mr. Blackburn so constrained, but knew that that was motivated by a sense of revenge and would provide no genuine sexual pleasure as was coming from this man who she knew would screw her hard and so well later tonight.

“I think you need a lesson, my slave.”

Monica found herself retrieving the whip from the table and cracking it a couple of times before she brought it down on the man’s back, more with a noise than any real force. As she counted the lashes and there were six, she felt convulsed with a burst of pleasure at each one. She revelled too, in the power this whole set up gave her. She felt so strong, so capable in having the ability to shape this man to her sexual desires. The sensations were heavy and the constrained breathing caused by the corset made her heady, but it was good, this was so good.

Monica strode back round so she stood in front of the man, her mound level with his head, about a hand’s breadth from his mouth. She smiled naughtily as a new idea came into her mind.

“Now, to redeem yourself, exercise that tongue and bring me a good orgasm or you’ll feel the consequences.”

As the man’s tongue stretched out to her naked clitoris, which, as Monica just then realised, was already erect and proud of its hood, she gasped at such a powerful jolt of pleasure which fired through her.

Monica closed her eyes to savour the sensation that little bit more and felt the lips pressed against her own. That seemed wrong and she blinked them open to find herself stood in an empty flat with Dean the estate agent pressed against the wall, his hand clutching her leather-clad bum as she thrust her body on to his. Her immediate reaction was to jump back and curse what the fugue had deluded her into doing in real life. However, the young man’s kissing was not bad and the weight of his cock so excited but trapped in his suit trousers as he pressed against her leathered thighs was nice.

As Dean broke for air, Monica lent back and then stepped away. She could see the young man was flushed and expectant. She scrabbled to discover what she felt about this, but her thoughts and senses were all bewildered by dropping into the intense world of Monique’s sexual games and then back into this one of, well, of Monica’s sexual games, she supposed. She had to confess the kiss with Dean had been nice and had meant that some of the glow she had experienced as Monique had come back into her mundane world as her consciousness had returned here.

“I’m sorry.” Monica said slowly.

Dean grinned broadly and Monica realised she had simply given him the upper hand. “No need to apologise love.”

Monica guessed it did not harm to inflate the man’s ego a little as long as he did nothing silly with his confidence so boosted.

“I guess it’s not every day you get a woman like me making advances on you.”

Monica felt she had snatched something back, turning it into a game she had initiated for her own amusement rather than her being blinded by his natural magnetism.

“Er, no, I suppose not.” Dean stuttered. “Erm, you’re not pushing for some discount on the property are you? You know we offer the best prices anyway.”

“Always the professional Dean. You’re going to go far.” She patronised him a little, though it was more to restore her self-esteem than to punish him. “I like this place a lot, but you know, I have a few other places I’d like to check first. So, I’ll keep you on my list and will let you know. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, erm, yes.” Dean tried to push through his uncertainty to make it more positive. “Here’s my card.”

Monica did not mind if he thought she was going to call him for anything else besides selling property, she could let him have that. She imagined she would soon be forgotten later that evening when he pulled some seventeen-year old clubber. Then something deep in her raised a point of curiosity about how she had come to be being fancied by someone almost a decade younger than her and more than that, she controlling where it was going, using subtle people politics and clever language. That was something she determined she was not going to let burst through for the moment because it would raise the concern about Monique’s life and whether rather than Monica uncovering a mystery by seeing through her eyes, she was finding the Frenchwoman’s life distorting her own.

As she walked from the flat, Monica pulled her mobile phone from her jacket and called for the taxi. She bid farewell to Dean and waited in the foyer of the block until the taxi appeared. She felt both lifted and confused by what had happened at the flat. Maybe she had anticipated too much. She had learnt more about Monique but simply just to see the wide scope of her sexuality, not anything more which might tell her why she had experienced these incidents from Monique’s life. She did not want to have to face it, but maybe Harcourt was right and the message had been clear all along: these visions were doing nothing more than reminding her who she truly was. Had that idea not just been reinforced by her trying to mount the estate agent with his back pushed to the wall? She was finding that her, what Harcourt had termed it? Her own ‘sexual persona’ could be quite energetic when it was allowed to surface.