As Monica stepped from the taxi, she smiled at the thought of finding sufficient clothes to wear to come to the bank, it had become more complicated than that. First she had thought of going to a local shopping centre and picking up something smart to wear. The trouble was all the suits she saw there made her look like a building society manageress. As she had to head East to the City anyway she decided it would be better to stop off at Oxford Street or even Bond Street to find something suitable. In the end she had had to go back home with her purchases and set off again. Monica walked along the pavement feeling confident and knowing much of that stemmed from how she had prepared herself. She wore a long blazer-like black leather jacket that reached almost to her knees. Her hair, done for the first time, after some trial and error, into a French plait stretched over her leathered shoulders. Beneath was a suit, in a fudge shade broken by thinner and lighter silk stripes. She had gone for a sleek straight jacket reaching to her mid-thigh though the fitted trousers were high-waisted.

Beneath the jacket was her first camisole, in a dark gold shade. Her breasts were still firm enough to let her get away with it and the sensation of the silk against her body was worth experiencing even if they had not been. She had buttoned the jacket so no-one seeing her would be certain if she was naked beneath it. Monica knew camisoles had been evolving from underwear to outerwear, but for the moment it was not a step she was confident to take. After all, just a couple of months ago she had rarely turned up to work in anything less than a blouse and a sweater. The hug of the suit and its smooth lines gave Monica a feeling of protection for what she was going to face. The silk covered, high-heeled ankle boots were russet with a subtle pattern and caught the light with every step she took. Again, she was pleased she had got something sexy without being blatant. Held in her leather-gloved hands was her brand new briefcase, large enough to indicate, she hoped, that she was ready for business, but more than slim enough not to be cumbersome.

With more apparent confidence than she felt Monica strode the small bank. She could easily have walked passed it in this quiet City of London street without even really noticing it. She guessed that that was how they liked it. It was so different to the high street bank she frequented. In moments though, she was inside, still feeling she was in some spy movie. She passed through some kind of detector at the door, but it did not sound. Inside seemed to be a mixture of antiques and the latest technology. A large portrait filled one wall, a valuable bureau stood against another. In the centre was a desk at which sat a woman working with the latest slim build computer. The huissière, how on Earth did Monica know that word, she wondered, looked up as she stepped into the lobby. Monica tried to walk nonchalantly to the desk, keeping repeating her mantra to keep her head and not allow herself to spiral off into fantasies.

“Good morning, madam.” The woman had a slight German accent and Monica guessed she was probably Swiss herself. “I’m Adeline Knecht, how can I help you?”

“Erm, good morning, I’m Monique Chase, I’ve come to access my safety deposit box. It’s been a long time, I was probably Monique Levene when I last visited.”

Monica, though hesitant, was pleased with her opening gambit. She guessed not dressing like a woman who had stepped in here at random and speaking directly about a service she knew they offered, must have quelled any doubts.

The woman gave a brief knowing smile. “Yes, Ms. Chase, please walk this way. Have you some form of identification?”

“Erm, yes, my passport, driving licence, cards.” Monica fumbled in her bag for the pack of things.

Somehow Monica had expected retinal scans or a DNA check, at least that they would ask for her fingerprints, but the woman seemed happy with what she had brought and Monica thought it ironic that it seemed easier to be welcomed into a Swiss bank than to get to borrow DVDs from her local rental store.

The woman took Monica from the small lobby through an imposing doorway into a small office. As with the lobby there was a mix of the old with the new. Two computer terminals sat back to back on a dark wood stand and Adeline gestured Monica to take the nearest seat of the two in front of them. By now she had her passport out and handed it to the huissière. In the time it took Monica to get seated and look at the screen the woman had clearly typed in the necessary details she wanted from the passport and closing it, handed it back. Monica held her breath expecting any moment that the woman would call security claiming an imposter was trying to get into the bank. However, her manner remained as passive as ever and Monica guessed she was just recording who had come, the password and the other details would presumably confirm, in the bank’s eyes, if she was genuine.

“If you can just complete the information requested on the screen, Ms. Chase.”

Monica looked at what appeared: it was very similar to the online banking systems she had seen. She typed in the short reference number and the digits of the access code that were asked, on this occasion the fourth, third and first in that order. She was glad she had taken time to memorise both numbers as it was far less embarrassing than having to scrabble around for the piece of paper which held them. It then asked for a final identification code and she typed ‘Sarlat’ which the previous night Monica had discovered was a town in southern France where she guessed either Monique or her mother had been born.

“That’s great. I assume you have your key?”

“Yes, yes, I have.” Monica automatically reached to feel it in her suit jacket pocket.

“Would you like to come with me to open the box or are you happy to give me the key and I’ll bring it to you?”

Monica remembered those movies where she had seen the two people slotting their keys in simultaneously and turning them together, so had assumed she would be taken to some dimly lit basement to do that. However, maybe, she thought, that showed up the newcomers and an old hand would stay up here. She plumped for that option.

“That’s fine, bring it to me. Now, the viewing rooms…”

“Through here.” Adeline gestured to three panelled doors with numbers discretely carved into them. “If you wait there in ‘1’ I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Monica stepped through into a plain well-lit room with a small desk and a chair. There were chained pens, a note pad with the bank logo, a letter opener and a pile of paperclips as if Monica was expected to do some office work here, but the only electronics was a lit button fitted to the desk. Adeline was soon back with a man in light brown overalls pulling a trolley with a metal case on it. He lifted it on to the desk in front of Monica. Adeline put the key on the desk in front of her.

“Take as long as you like. If you need anything just press the button.”

“Thank you, thank you very much.”

As Adeline and the man disappeared Monica had to suppress a yelp of pleasure. What had she managed to pull off? She opened the flap lid of the metal case and looked inside. There were documents. The first was a European Union passport and she opened it to see her face looking out. That startled her. It was almost seven years old and said that she was Monique Lucie Levene with dual French and British nationality. Beneath was an older, expired, French passport for Monique Lucie Chase with a picture that looked like the one she had had on her library ticket at university. Monica shook her head in disbelief. Then she felt as if a void had opened up beneath her as this clearly seemed to be evidence that truly she was a different woman from the identity of herself that she held in her head, well, these days, for most of the time. Unwilling to face all the implications she tossed both of the passports aside. There was a French birth certificate for Monique Lucie Chase born on Monica’s birthday but rather than in Cambridge, in Sarlat-la-Canéda in the departement of Dordogne. Monique’s parents were Christopher Michael Chase, noted as a teacher aged 43 and Rosamonde Eliane Chase nee Daoust, aged 31, also a teacher.

Monica flicked through the rest of the documents quickly. There was a French version of the EU driving licence, a certificate for a French law degree, the decree nisi for her marriage to Robert Levene, various details of actions she had taken to return to her maiden name and details of the purchase of the flat she had visited, though, of course, no deeds.

Monica found it difficult to comprehend. Of course all of this suggested that Harcourt had been right all along and she was Monique Chase. With the passports no-one would say she was not. She could walk from here with all these things and act as Monique Chase anyway, so it was academic whether she chose to do so at any one moment or not. This was difficult to deal with and Monica tried to focus on other things.

One thing that had disappointed her was that there were no bank details. Briefly Monica had had dreams of finding stacks of cash or details of an account holding millions. She was tempted to ask Adeline if Monique had an account with this bank, but she guessed she could not say, certainly without Monica providing her with an account number. Was that not how Swiss bank accounts worked? Monica pushed her hand into the rear of the case and felt something like the edge of a picture frame. Quickly she snatched it out into the light. It was indeed a picture: a small portrait of a woman. Monica was not knowledgeable in these things, but guessed it had to be at least a couple of centuries old. Had this belonged to Monique too? Like the official documents, had she secreted it here to stop it falling into the wrong hands? Maybe Monique had owned a lot of art but this was the only piece of the right size to stash here. It came with some documents, one seemed to be an expired insurance certificate and the other that looked like part of a will giving the painting to Monique. She guessed these were necessary to prove its provenance so that if Monique tried to sell it people would not think it stolen.

Monica sat for a few moments trying to decide what to do. She had nothing to gain from stomping out of here shouting that she was Monique Chase and she had been wronged. Something inside her remained unconvinced that it could even be the case anyway. However, there was some point in taking these documents. Her new job was in the Monique’s name and this documentation would avoid any awkward questions from Personnel about why she was called Monica in everything and had no French connections as she had claimed. At best they would think her simply pretentious, at worst that she had, in part, deceived them.

Monica opened her leather briefcase and began putting the documents inside. She managed to jam the painting in too. She realised she had turned a corner and guessed it was when she had seen her own photo in the passports. Without them she would have felt uncomfortable taking these things and have continued to be concerned that the real Monique would turn up wanting them back. Now, however, she had to acknowledge, that whatever the true story was, these things were hers. That did not mean she had to embrace the life they implied, but there was the possibility that something may stem from her past and she would need the documentation to cope with it.

If Monique’s parents were dead, Monica suddenly thought, what had happened to her inheritance? Had it all gone on keeping her mother comfortable in her dying days? Was the portrait part of it? Had the inheritance been why Robert had conspired to rob Monique of her identity? Had he brainwashed her into signing over her rights then making her forget all about it so she would not contest him taking advantage of them? Had he gone further in removing her entirely from her life so no-one would come looking for her to check if she was happy about giving up what she had received from her parents? This was the kind of line Harcourt had been suggesting, but despite uncovering all of this stuff hidden in a safety deposit box, Monica knew here sceptical nature was uncomfortable with such an explanation. Maybe, after all, she was not the woman in the photo and the changes she had made in recent weeks had only come unconsciously to make her look more like Monique. Monica felt she had to find photos from the past few years to make a true comparison.

The safety deposit box looked bare with all its contents removed and Monica felt she ought to put something back. She scribbled a note on the pad giving her name and mobile phone number in case it turned out she had got it all wrong and the real Monique came looking for her stuff. She wondered who had paid for the rental on this box. Monica closed it and pressed the button. Adeline soon appeared with the workman in tow.

“Ms. Chase?”

“Thank you, I’ve finished.”

The workman came in and removed the case. Monica followed Adeline back into the main room.

“Can I just ask how long I have outstanding on my rental of the box?” Monica was pleased at the clever way she had approached the question.

“Certainly.” Adeline crossed to the terminal. “You paid for ten years’ rental and have four years two months outstanding.”

“Which account did I use?”

“Erm, like a lot of people, you paid in cash.”

“Right. It’s been so long.” Monica observed, slightly frustrated that she had gained no more clues. “That’s fine then. I thought I’d had it longer. Another thing, erm, I’ve not got long in London and I promised to have a piece valued for a friend before I fly to Nice; could you recommend an auction house, somewhere dealing in paintings, you know eighteenth-nineteenth century?”

“Erm, let me think.” Adeline seemed to express no concern at being asked such a query. “Well, I know Burghley’s certainly handle that kind of thing, we’ve bought from them in the past for the interiors here.”

Monica took the directions and following a quick taxi ride to West London found herself at the door of the auction house. She felt buoyed by having been able to fool the bank into believing her to be the kind of woman who habitually dealt with them and now wanted more of that buzz by pretending to be a potential client at an auction house. Basically she had no idea what to do with the painting and thought that at least it could generate a bit of money for her. She stopped herself, thinking that it was not really hers to sell, presumably Monique would want it back. Something this small, Monica guessed, however, she could replace, certainly once she was at Maskell HD and, thinking about it, should she not find out its true value? After all, it might be a valueless fake.

Monica found her appearance again opened doors without question. In some tens of minutes she had been handed from a receptionist to a manager who took her to a valuer. He introduced himself as Alexander Miller. He was a tall, rather gangly man in his mid-thirties with long fingers that reminded Monica of a cartoon frog.

“You wish to have an item valued, a painting, I believe?”

“Yes.” Monica said simply and reached into her bag and put the portrait on the table between them.

Miller looked startled, clearly expecting to be taken to the piece rather than having it plonked down in front of him. He picked it up carefully and sat gazing at it for a few moments.

“Well, you’ll want to make other arrangements for transporting it in future. It’s not something you would want to leave in the back of a taxi.”

“Yes?” Monica was curious, clearly it was not a fake then. “Who painted it, who’s the woman?”

“It is a portrait of the Baroness Marianne de Laroche, no doubt painted by Jacob or Jacobus de Courdure an obscure portrait painter of the early eighteenth century. His work turns up every couple of decades or so. You can usually spot them comparatively easily. He always includes a mirror in his pictures, as you can see at the back here and the reflection is always different to the woman pictured in the foreground. He generally painted lesser nobility at the court of Louis XIV and did a whole series of the Baroness over the space of twenty, twenty-five years. You see in the mirror he shows her as a milkmaid; it was a common theme he applied to her. This was a little ahead of its time: the Arcadian ethic, the rural idyll was popular in the later eighteenth century. The most famous example is Marie Antoinette playing at being a shepherdess. De Courdure’s grandson or great-grandson, also a Jacob, was working in the mid to late nineteenth century and uses many of the same themes. By then they were old fashioned, but he cleverly reworked them.”

“So, what’s the date? I’m not that familiar with Louis XIV’s reign. That was before the French Revolution?”

“Certainly. It was a very long reign; he outlived all his children. I guess this particular piece is from the mid-1730s.”

“That’s old. Is it…”

“Valuable? Well, it depends what you call valuable. It’s a small painting, he’s not that famous an artist, but he does have fans among collectors, some see a fantastical or magical element in his work that people like; there are various legends about him that attract some people to buy his paintings. Going on what the last one sold for in the mid-eighties, I would say, well, what’s your line of profession?”

“Erm, I’m a Claims Counsel, a lawyer.” Monica surprised herself at how easily it came out, though for the moment she still felt it was half a lie.

Alexander smiled. “Oh well, then, let’s say at the right auction it could raise you a year’s salary.”

“Okay.” Monica said, trying to sound calm.

Of course, for now she certainly earned nowhere near that sum. It could make a huge difference to her wealth, she could certainly afford to upgrade to a better flat. Her mind filled with the mad idea of putting down a deposit on that one in Docklands, the one that had been Monique’s place.

“Are you interested in putting it up for auction?”

“Yes, yes, I am. I need to liquidate assets at the moment, so as soon as possible.”

“You have details of its provenance.”

Monica realised in her eagerness she had overplayed her hand and had made the valuer suspicious. She rummaged in her bag and produced the paperwork that had accompanied the painting.

“Ah, yes, excellent. I wish some of our other clients came as well prepared as you.” Alexander said with satisfaction as he read the documents. “In eight days’ time we have an auction of European miniatures from this era. I know this is not strictly in the miniature category, but if you are in a hurry you may catch someone who would be interested. I can put it forward today if you wish. Otherwise we have our regular portrait sale in the middle of next month.”

“Whichever you feel is best, but the sooner the better.”

“That’s fine. If you just wait here I’ll fetch Martin and he’ll arrange the paperwork for you. Well, I must say when I woke up this morning, I didn’t expect I’d have an elder Courdure up for sale by lunchtime. Thank you for bringing it in Ms. Chase.”

“Thank you.” Monica smiled.

Surprisingly she found herself wondering what this man would look like naked. Maybe too long and lean, but then those fingers and saucy thoughts of how he could put them to use on her sex flooded her mind. Monica tried to calm herself and stared at the painting, guessing this was one of the last times she would see it, but thinking too of the money it could bring her. Any thought of Monique’s claims over it were forgotten.

Martin Kerr was a smaller man, a little younger than Alexander with that kind of floppy blond hair that Monica associated with public school boys. His accent showed Monica that her assumption had been correct. She struggled hard to push out thoughts of her standing over him clad in her favourite leather corset and thigh-length boots lashing down on his pathetic, shackled flesh. As she focused on the job in hand rather than the erotic fantasies that seemed to be plaguing her this morning, Monica noted, that contrary to what she had expected, he avoided being condescending, rather he treated her like an equal. Monica wondered at the ability of some smart clothes and some attitude to delude people, especially in Britain where everyone seemed to define everyone else by such things.

As she warmed a little to Martin, she found that again thoughts of sex with him came to mind. She wondered if she was becoming obsessed or whether it was a combination of having a relaxed, if surprising day and the strength she felt dressing and behaving the way she had been doing. For a moment she pondered that, if she was not careful, this false identity might replace her own. There had been the moment at the bank when she had been tempted to dump all her own documents into the safety deposit box and walk from there pretending that she had always been Monique, with the paperwork to prove it. However, she recognised that that was wrong and in the long run might cause major problems.

Monica let herself be guided by Martin and soon the painting was fully in Burghley’s hands with a reserve price set. It was being sold under the name of Monique Chase, but any funds raised were going direct to Monica’s savings account. Leaving the auction house thirty minutes later, Monica felt in a daze, her mind trying to cope with the outcome of the morning. She walked the busy streets of the city and dropped into a small café for some lunch. As she sat munching some toasted ciabatta she suddenly had a feeling of déjà vu and realised that she, or rather she as Monique, had been here before. She looked out of the window and realised she was just a short walk from Maskell HD. She guessed that that was appropriate, and this place might even become her regular lunch spot.

“Monique.”

Monica turned to the sound of the voice, jerked from her gazing into the street. It was Lisa Bailey.

“Ah, Lisa, hello. Just stopping for some lunch?”

“Yes, can I join you?”

“Certainly.”

Lisa sat down opposite Monica. They were dressed very similarly to each other, just that Lisa’s suit was dove grey with pinstripes.

“We got your letter of acceptance. Were you coming in this afternoon? It’ll be easier to do it face-to-face.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” Monica improvised. “I was at Burghley’s this morning having a valuation, so it seemed convenient.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about selling off the family heirlooms, the golden hello will be in your account by tomorrow. Or were you buying?” Lisa said lightly.

“It was just a valuation for a friend. That’s great about the hello. I’m looking at a flat in Docklands so some cash will come in handy.”

“Have you found somewhere you like?”

“Yes …”

Monica went on to describe Monique’s flat she had viewed, pretending she was buying it for herself. Lisa seemed genuinely interested and Monica warmed to her. At the back of her mind she was amazed at how well she was carrying off this pretence and in turn that fired off qualms of guilt about how much of an effective liar she was becoming. She dismissed those thoughts for the moment, telling herself that she had got on a roll this morning and there would be few days when she would be expected to behave as a safety deposit box owner, an art collector and a successful lawyer within the space of a few hours. However, one concern was simply replaced by another: that she was simply, almost inadvertently, weaving a complex web and someone would eventually catch her out. The thought of the money, however, and what security that could bring her reassured her and encouraged her to sustain this for a short while longer, at least until she had the funds from both Maskell HD and hopefully the sale of the de Courdure. Then, she estimated, she would have enough cash to run off and hide on some Greek island for two to three years and return once the search for her had died down.

Monica followed Lisa to the Maskell HD office pleased to be able to turn the questions away from herself to things about the workings of the company and even to Lisa’s own interests. At the office Monica received all the usual packs and typical introductions to the people she would be working with. A start day, two weeks away, was fixed. Monica realised she could have set in almost three months into the future, but guessed that effectively still receiving holiday pay from Blackburn & Frost while coming on to Maskell HD’s payroll, would be an additional boost to her income; let the taxman sort out all the ramifications.

Monica tossed aside the letters. She was too irritated to sustain her concern. The day had been another lazy one of more clothes shopping and a visit to what was becoming her favourite beautician for her first manicure and pedicure of her life. The one thing she had noticed when meeting with Lisa was how poor her own nails appeared compared to her the personnel manager’s. It was not just about clothes, she had realised, it was the whole package that signalled who and what she was. Though she had had no confirmation of her assumption, she guessed women would pick up on these small elements far more than men. The attention to her nails was a new experience and she realised she had enjoyed being pampered. To compensate for what she had subsequently felt was a little decadent, she had headed to the local art gallery and had viewed the latest exhibition on a tour with a group of pensioners. Then however, the tempting voices of the boutiques had called to her and without really consciously deciding she had become the owner of another range of tops, skirts and boots, some she envisaged she would wear to work, so did not feel as bad about the experience as she could have done. As yet, though, she had not had the courage to consign her Blackburn & Frost work clothes, as she now thought of them, to the charity shops. She realised that the lingering fear that Maskell HD would recognise their mistake still hung around her.

The concerns over where her life was going and her ability to direct its path had just been reinforced on her return to the flat. She had enjoyed her quiet lunch in a small French restaurant she had discovered the previous week. She had resisted the urge to speak to the waiters in French and even wondered why she had such an urge; maybe because she was reading a copy of ‘La Reine Margot’ she had bought on impulse when trying to raise her cultural quota for the morning. Those things had been the heralds of greater unease. Three days earlier at the auction house and her new employer’s she had felt that she had been in full control of her life once more, but these letters suggested that her fuguing self had yet again been working to a different agenda. The first was from a local estate agent acknowledging her letter asking them to sell her flat and accepting the price she was suggesting for it. If she dropped into their office they would finalise the process. Accompanying it was the approval from her bank for her mortgage. Though it did not say it directly, it appeared that the flow of cash into her savings account and the acceptance letter from Maskell HD had been more than sufficient to secure a sufficiently large mortgage for the flat in Docklands. Almost inevitably the third letter was from City Vista Estates saying that the vendor accepted her offer on the flat, though it was a little beneath the asking price.

This was really getting out of control. She seemed now to have parallel lives, one in which she was a lawyer looking for a new, sophisticated home and the other in which she was an out-of-work legal secretary spending much of the time struggling to accommodate the challenges her other personality was setting her. At first she had wondered how she could extract herself from this mess. Then she had become angry at Harcourt for behaving as if she had no split personality. That sentiment soon moderated, however, when she came to see that it might have been for the best to work with him: he had been treating both the cause and the symptoms pretty successfully. She recognised that to have revealed how severe they were from the start may have truly alarmed her, wrecking the step-by-step approach she acknowledged he had adopted. However, on reading the letters, she had still spoken to his answerphone and requested another session with him as soon as possible.

With thoughts spiralling in her head, Monica was startled by the sound of her doorbell. Living in a block with a security door at the front usually shielded her from random callers. Being at the top also meant they were unlikely to reach her number on the panel of flat numbers if they pressed them at random. This meant that someone ringing her doorbell was seeking her. She glanced at her new watch and saw that it was early evening; too late for the delivery of some item of clothing that her fuguing self might have ordered. Monica walked to the panel by her front door and pressed the speak button.

“Hello?”

“Monique, Monique Chase?” It was an accented man’s voice.

Mentally Monica cursed her loss of control over her life. It was one thing to write letters in her sleep, things she could revoke or cancel, it was another when that behaviour brought her into contact with other people, especially here at home. For an instant Monica thought to say that this man had the wrong address, but she imagined that could provoke more problems. For an unnerving moment she wondered if it was another friend like this Carole, who, finding out Monique was back on the scene had come to search her out. Given how many lovers she had seen Monique get through there must be quite a few men in London who might want to renew their acquaintance with her. Could it be Guillaume? She did not think so, he sounded too young.

“Yes, who is it?”

The man answered in French. “It’s Roland, Roland Paquin, from KSA Escorts.”

Monica’s head span. KSA Escorts? Who were they, a freight company? For an instant Monica was bemused. Why would they send a Frenchman or had he just wanted to show off and had taken a guess with the name he had on the package? Why had he introduced himself like that? He was clearly not a friend of Monique’s which reassured Monica a little, but she was uncertain what he wanted.

“Shall I sent the taxi away or are you coming down?”

What a question. Now Monica was more deeply confused. Was it a taxi come to collect her? No, he would have been more direct if he was the driver; ‘send it away’ suggested he had anticipated her coming with him in it. Monica marshalled her thoughts, both to think of the correct French with which to respond and then what that response would be.

“Erm, send it away. Er, come up, erm, I’m not ready yet.” Monica stuttered.

Monica buzzed the door open and moved to her front door opening the little spyhole. In moments a tall man, probably around her own age with slightly spiked hair and dressed in a relaxed dark suit and cream-coloured ribbed top, stood in her hallway. He pressed the doorbell. Again Monica fumbled for some explanation and some direction of what to do. Then she stumbled against the door feeling her legs go weak. What a time to fugue.

Monique straightened up and opened the door. In front of her was the man she recognised from the website, he looked even better in the flesh than in his picture. Monique had had the urge to buy a man to pleasure her and had paid a good price to get a French one at that. She had used KSA a couple of times in the past when the need to be utterly in control of the relationship had come upon her.

“Come in.” Monique said in French.

“Thank you.”

This Roland moved with a relaxed air that Monique liked, he was assured but far from arrogant and she realised that she had picked well.

“I’m sorry that I’m not ready. Some business things came up.” Monique explained. “Make yourself comfortable, have a drink. There’s a bottle of white in the fridge.”

Monique chided herself, this was hardly the way to behave, then again, it was one advantage of a male escort they were paid not to ask awkward questions or disapprove the way lovers did. It was embarrassing though to have forgotten the time, especially ironic with her new watch. The clothes she had decided upon were lying on the bed. She shed the blouse and the tight jeans she had been wearing, glad she already had her silk underwear on below. She fetched her garter belt and quickly slid her legs into the stockings. She added the suede boots and walked around feeling good in boots and lingerie.

Then she picked up the leather dress. It closed with steel buttons from her cleavage to her hem which sat mid-thigh. It capped her shoulders and had a slender ‘v’ at the front. Monique had fallen in love with it immediately. Of course she had a soft spot for leather clothes and this fitted her criteria of being both sexy, she envisaged Roland unbuttoning these later, and yet discreet. She buttoned the dress closed, loving the sensation of the leather on her shoulders and back. She hurried to her dressing table and touched up her eye-shadow and put on a brighter red lipstick she had got in some deal at the beautician’s. For a moment she wondered where all her perfume had gone and had to search her drawers for a small bottle and she dabbed scent on her wrists and the nape of her neck. She ran a brush through her long smooth hair and felt ready.

Roland was sipping the wine when she entered the living room, he had poured her a glass. Seeing her he stood and Monique simpered at his gentlemanly behaviour. This was certainly what she had paid for and she was proving to be one satisfied customer. Monique sat on the sofa next to him.

“Thank you.” She took the wine.

“Are you happy to stay here or do you intend for us to still go to the restaurant?”

“The table’s booked, but there’s no hurry. I’ll get another taxi when we’re ready.”

Monique felt a little more back in control of the evening. There were forty-five minutes until they had to be at the restaurant, a small local place that did good French cooking. There would be some things she would miss the convenience of when she moved to Docklands.

“Are you from Orleans?”

“No, but close, Blois. And you’re a Lyonnaise?”

Monique smiled, “Yes, I suppose you’d say that. I was born in Sarlat but grew up in Lyons. Have you been in London long?”

“Two years.”

“Do you like it?”

It was Roland’s turn to smile. “Yes, there’s a lot to do here. I was a musician, the cor anglais, here I can see anything from a rock band to a symphony orchestra to leading jazz musicians within thirty minutes’ travelling of each other. You?”

“Oh, I’ve been here six years. I came over with my husband, my ex-husband. My father was English but had lived in France since before I was born; he taught English to business people.”

“Ah yes, you’re from the Dordogne, that makes sense, they say some villages there now have more English than French residents.” Roland smiled to show it was a light-hearted comment. “Do you feel French?”

“Yes, I suppose I do. There are aspects of Britain I enjoy, I do like London and as you know it’s a good place for work.”

“You said you were a lawyer?”

“Yes, I’m starting at a new place next month. I handle claims.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes, I do. I meet lots of different people; the cases are interesting; I travel. It’s a good life. And you, do you enjoy your profession?”

Roland smiled again, a gesture Monique was coming to enjoy. “I won’t do it forever, but I do enjoy it. Like you, I meet lots of interesting people, wonderful women, they are interesting, I travel some and the food is generally very good. What’s not to like?”

“Control of your work; of your customers?”

“Well, don’t you enjoy letting go sometimes, leaving the decisions to someone else? It can be exciting, liberating.”

“I can appreciate that, maybe that’s the gender divide. Too often both in work and socially I meet men who want to take that kind of control without asking. I have no need to seek out such yielding; it’s the controlling aspect I have to search for.”

“I can see that. Well, then, I think you and I are going to get along excellently.”

“That’s certainly what I hoped when I picked you. I’m enjoying speaking French.”

“I’m glad.”

Monique detected a genuine pleasure that Roland had in his work, not simply the lines that he might have been trained to feed her. She checked her watch. Everything was in place. Roland would already have the cash necessary to buy their dinner and to pay for the taxi ride. Monique stood and walked to the telephone. In moments the taxi was booked and she returned to Roland. She stood over him so his eyes were level with the base of her dress. It felt so good and she felt special knowing she had bought him to enjoy the sight of her; that made it a double treat. She took her wine glass and chinked it with his.

“Santé.”

“Santé.”

They both drank deeply. Monique resisted the urge to run her hands over his body here and now. After all she also felt her stomach complaining. She was eager to taste the veal she knew the restaurant prepared so well. Monique wondered where her long velvet coat had gone, and instead fetched a black cotton jacket that she could not remember buying but which would suffice for now. In minutes her and Roland were speeding to the restaurant chatting in about the latest spate of policier movies coming out of France at the moment and the few cinemas in London which were showing them.

Monique enjoyed the evening. The food and the wine were good. The portions were generous without making her feel overwhelmed. The fine brandy gave her a warm glow and made her feel very aroused. Roland had been excellent company all evening and as she had hoped interesting on a range of topics from travel to food to contemporary literature. He did not kowtow to all Monique’s views on things but was skilfully diplomatic. Monique realised she enjoyed this intellectual engagement in advance of the physical one she was now beginning to hunger for.

Soon they were back at Monique’s flat. Part of her wondered at the risk of having brought a stranger to her home. However, he was not some unknown man she had picked up at a bar and KSA vetted all of their staff thoroughly before employing them. She guessed she was safer than when she had invited that man back the other week, what was his name? The moment they got through the front door of her flat, Monique pressed him against the wall and took a deep kiss from him. She knew a lot of escorts ruled out kissing even if they permitted sex, but for Monique it was almost a ritual, a kind of greeting gesture to signal to the man, wherever he had come from, that he was here to have sex with her. Roland certainly did not seem to be complaining. She led him by the hand to the living room and rather roughly removed his jacket before running her hands sensuously over his tightly-held chest.

“Remove my dress.” Monique commanded.

Roland simply responded by undoing the first button and then slowly the next and the next. As he did, he exposed more of Monique’s body and he gently kissed the tops of her breasts. Monique loved the sensation of being released from the smooth leather. As he undid the final button and the dress fell clear of Monique he ran his hands gently up the sides of her body. Monique tingled at the sensation. He moved his hands to the small of her back and then stood, still with his arms loosely encircling her rising up her body until they were at her shoulders. Monique realised he was a true professional. A lover she knew well would remember those parts of her body which provided special sensations. Everyone had their own particular erogenous zones. However, for someone she had just met these would be unknown, but she could see Roland was gently probing to at least locate some of them to exploit in order to bring her pleasure.

Roland nuzzled the back of her neck and kissed right around her throat before gently pressing his lips against the rim of her ear. Then a warm hand was on the nape of her neck as the other stroked her side and Monique could do nothing but mentally applaud Roland’s skill in finding two of the points where she liked attention. He pressed his firm chest against his and her erect nipples pleasurably rubbed on the silk of her bra. In moments though, the hand at the top of her back had dropped to release the bra and, as it came free, her breasts were exposed to the slightly rough but certainly nicely stimulating effect of rubbing against his top.

Monique turned in his grasp and again took his hand, this time to guide him to the bedroom. She had wanted this to be about control, her ordering around the man she had bought to service her, but she was finding his sensuous skills were leading her in another, but just as pleasant, direction. Monique lay back on the counterpane of her bed and let Roland slide between her legs. His teeth caught her panties whilst one hand released each of her stockings in turn. Skilfully he soon had her panties at her ankles and Monique realised that imperceptibly he had also been spreading her legs so that her already wet and loose lips were opened wide.

Roland returned to caress her so smoothly; to run his tongue and press his kisses into every part of her that would react to his touch. Monique lost sense of the passage of time as her brain kept receiving disorientating signals of the sensations being imposed upon her. Then she felt Roland’s strong fingers stroking at her inner thighs, heightening her excitement and anticipation but as yet not straying to her sex. Then two fingers clutched the tip of her clitoris and she gasped. It was clear he had been waiting for it to harden before giving it attention. Then she felt his large cock hesitating where her thigh met her knee and then it felt different and she realised Roland had now rubbered his flesh and that knowledge made her shudder delightfully with the thought that he would soon be inside her. Monique could only compliment his preparations.

Then his cock was at the mouth of her pussy and she quivered. He kept up his finger work until he slid inside. He leant over Monique now, riding high so that she gazed at his chest, with no idea of when he had shed his clothes. His position meant that his body pressed on her stimulated clitoris and his cock was hard against her g-spot. Mouth and fingers came down on her nipples and Monique felt her mind thrown by the range of pleasures it was sensing. With such attention given to her arousal it did not take long for Monique to be thrust to climax and she found it did not stop. Moments after the first her body jolted again and she found no power to halt a third. She felt stunned and a little relieved when she felt him jerk and she realised he had let himself go.

“You’re good.” Monique commended with a weak voice.

Now came the bit where a paid lover was far less than a found one, well at least the ones she uncovered. He kissed her softly and was then off her quickly and dressing. Monique lay there watching him idly, drifting in and out of sleep. Now clad, Roland gave her a final kiss and was gone.

Monica sat up abruptly. She wondered if she was now able to reassert herself because her Monique side had fallen asleep. Of course, though, as she moved and felt her jaw stiff and her body with a pleasurable ache, she recognised that it had been her body that Roland, if that was his name, had been servicing. Things looked a little different. Her bedroom was not as tidy as she had seen it. She padded through to the living room, naked. There were two empty glasses but the wine was a cheap supermarket one, nothing special. The leather dress had been part of the fantasy; instead there was her wrap-around top and one of her new wool skirts.

Monica felt a little bewildered. She knew now that she preferred the ‘full’ fugues as she now thought of them, in which she experienced something from Monique’s life of four years before. This situation, the ‘half’ fugues in which Monique intruded into her life were something different. She could not decide whether they were better or worse than her just doing things whilst asleep, unbeknown to her waking mind. As she headed to the bath, she guessed they were equally bad, in this case having brought risk to her in the form of an unknown man in her flat, and at a premium price to her bank account, no doubt. Monica ran a bath, keen to wash off the feeling of having Roland touch her. Was it a kind of assault? No, she could not really argue that, after all, it was her, or rather Monique acting as her, who had ordered and paid for the man and had left him no shred of doubt that she had wanted sex with him.

As the water filled the bath Monica dialled Harcourt’s number. Partly she wanted to do something. She could hardly run down the street telling Roland to come back and apologise. This was something she could do to assuage her guilt. She hoped Harcourt could do some technique which would rein Monique’s behaviour in. What made Monica’s sense of worry stronger was the fact that part of her kept reminding her how excellent she felt and another that she had no-one to apologise to, least of all herself. Given that neither of her identities had had the chance to command anyone this evening, Monica put her strength to use in slapping down those dissenting sentiments in her mind. She again requested a prompt appointment from Harcourt and then headed to the bathroom to wash away the reminders of her visitor.

“Something has happened, I could tell by the urgency of your message.”

“Yes, doctor. It was Monique’s behaviour, well, leaking into my life again. This time there was no excuse. This time I was not stressed like when I was at the interview nor was I overlapping with her life as I was when looking at that flat. I don’t know for certain but I think I preferred it when I used to slip fully into her life rather than her taking control of mine.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll take this slowly and calmly. Explain what happened.”

“Well, there’s two things really. First me doing things in my sleep, I guess motivated by what Monique would want.”

“Like you resigning and taking up that job at Maskell’s?”

“Yes. Well, I thought that might stop after our last session, but I’ve now sold my place and am buying that flat. Well, I had an offer on my flat this morning. It came through quickly. I don’t think the guy’s interested in living in it, he just sees a good rental opportunity; you know, ‘buy-to-let’ they call it.”

“And you’re tempted by the offer?”

“Erm, yes, it’s good. It wouldn’t give me nearly enough for the Docklands flat…”

“The one you saw in the fugue?”

“The same. Of course, to resolve that, Monique went and arranged a mortgage.”

“With your money?”

“Yes and on the strength of the contract from Maskell HD.”

“What I mean is that you could have done that yourself; Monique didn’t suddenly win the lottery or inherit money?”

“No, but, God, I’d entirely forgotten that: the painting and those passports.” Monica blurted.

“Sorry, you’re losing me.”

“Erm, well, I was so focused on the escort and waking up with him, I forgot the other stuff. This is getting well out of hand.”

“Okay, okay. As I said, take it calmly. Let us tackle one thing at a time. I don’t want you getting het up. Right, the flats first. You don’t remember putting yours on the market and buying this other one?”

Monica breathed deeply to gather her thoughts. “Well, I knew quite quickly of course when the estate agent contacted me. I’d obviously rang or wrote to them while I was Monique.”

“But you didn’t reverse those actions?”

“No, I suppose I could, but … I don’t know.”

“I think something is going on here. Do you remember when you first started seeing me, we discussed whether Monique was about wish fulfilment?”

“Yes, but I thought we had dismissed that.”

“Well, I argued it was not the prime cause and I still feel that. You were Monique and somehow you were made to forget that. However, now the fugues, the memories of your previous life, have become such a part of your current life, you’ve put them to use, to act out things yourself, you as Monica, would be too timid to do. The important thing, in my view, is that these things have benefited you, not done you any harm.”

“Erm, I suppose so. You are saying my subconscious wants me to move to the new flat?”

“Yes. That’s no surprise, part of you associates it with good things. You’ve seen yourself having sex there, having a comfortable life too. In addition, there are basic issues, from there travelling to Maskell HD will be much easier than coming all the way from this side of London. I imagine you don’t enjoy your ride to work each morning.”

Monica thought back to all the cold and wet days waiting by the bus stop; the hour’s ride round the back streets. Harcourt was right; it was certainly not something she had yearned for since leaving Blackburn & Frost.

“So you’re saying however much I might dislike having to move house, a part of me sees more positive aspects in doing that?”

“Yes.”

“And so Monique acts based on that viewpoint?”

“You act from that viewpoint, but you deny it, you literally blot it from your memory. Later we will talk about relaxation techniques. I want you to see more of what you do when you think you are being Monique.”

“Okay.”

Monica responded slowly. In one way she was happy that she would not find out about her night-time activities just second-hand but, conversely, rather alarmed that she was somehow powerless to resist what her Monique side wanted to do. She had to remind herself, that none of it had done her any harm and, in fact, as she kept forgetting, she was investing her money wisely: London property rose in value so quickly, she would be a rich woman within a few years.

“I think that is resolved. There were other things?”

“Yes.” Monica said severely, sure she had an example of Monique not acting in Monica’s best interests. “She went and rented an escort; for sex.”

“You’re worried you’re unconscious is spending your money?”

“Money, that’s another issue, but no, that’s not my point. She paid for a man to come and have sex with me.” Monica sounded indignant.

“Yes? Was he no good?”

“Ha! No, he was bloody excellent at it, but it’s not the point.”

“You feel it is a little beneath you to have to pay for sex when you could attract sexual partners? Women sometimes enjoy the shift in power it gives them.”

Monica was about to deny that was the case, but a pleasant tingle reminded her she had actually liked that aspect. She took up her second line of argument.

“It could be dangerous. What if he’d tied me up, robbed me, attacked me?”

“Well, I imagine as Monique you had selected a reputable company. If that aspect of your personality was in charge in your mind at the time I’m sure that you were more experienced than you would have been as plain Monica.”

The thought of herself being experienced in dealing with buying men for sex initially made her feel uneasy, but she realised it was soon replaced with a pleasant sensation that mixed both sexual and power-play possibilities.

“Okay.” Harcourt continued. “Remember what we said before about taking a modern day perspective on these things. As I said, though, the training I’ll give you today will let you access those periods when you feel you are sleep-walking, writing, etc. I must warn you, though, that your concerns today suggest you may be discontented with what your urges encourage you to do.”

“So you’re saying I am fated slowly to turn into Monique?”

“No, because you are Monique; those urges are your own. It’s just that they have been unnaturally suppressed. Of course you are not the Monique of four years ago, but you are likely to have retained the same tastes. I am sure you will always retain aspects of the life you’ve lived these past four years, but this personality is not as forceful as the one you had before.”

“But you promised me we’d let out the details of Monique slowly; open the sluice gates just a little.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve done that. Imagine what would have happened if I’d not controlled it: the dam would have burst entirely one day and you would have woken up as Monique wondering where the last four years had gone, whose clothes you were wearing, where you were and then why your Docklands flat was empty. This way, things are a lot smoother. Even if the dam broke now, and the pressure behind it has been reduced so much anyway, still, even if it broke, you would have a job at Maskell HD and soon would have keys to your old flat: much easier to deal with. This last phase is going to be challenging, however; I have to warn you of that. It’s like a red wine, the dregs at the bottom are always the strongest; they may make you shudder when you drink them, but medically they’re the best bit. Do you see?”

“But I’m becoming worried that somehow I am going to have my views shaped by Monique’s.”

“Well, again, they were your views. Some of them are liable to be dormant within you anyway. And to return to the sluice analogy: even if you let the water out slowly and allow it to drain away, the passing water is going to make the stones on the riverbed wet. I know you are averse to even that level of contact, but in the long run, it’s actually better for you. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

Harcourt smiled at his last comment and Monica genuinely felt reassured. She could forget about Roland. With the exercises Harcourt was going to train her in, she was sure she could stop Monique going off and doing such awkward things behind her back again.

“Right, are you ready?”

Monica felt there were some other things to mention, but she had taken on so much in the past few minutes, that they had slipped her mind. She guessed whatever they were could keep for her next session with the doctor.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Today, rather than hypnosis, we are going to do some relaxation techniques. I think the tension that all of this is causing you is leading to you segregating Monique’s actions from your own. Causing such a division is leading you to do things when asleep, oblivious to them. If you relax more any Monique traits and urges are liable to come out while you’re awake, so you’ll witness them first hand rather than simply finding evidence of them later.”

Harcourt seemed to be giving a rehearsed explanation, but Monica realised she welcomed that as his measured tones in themselves were calming and readied her for the more formal part of today’s session.

“Do you understand?” Harcourt asked.

“Yes.” Monique replied drowsily.

She realised that she had come to associate Harcourt’s voice with entering the trance especially when he was outlining things this way rather than asking her more forceful questions.

“Now, close your eyes. Let all the tension in your body wash out of you. Imagine it flowing from your body like water down a stream, out to the sea, somewhere beyond your feet.”

Monica envisaged what Harcourt was saying and soon found her body did feel less stiff. The ache in her jaw and her calves brought on by the orgasms began to ebb.

“Good.” Harcourt said, his voice even softer than before. “Now envisage every part of your body, starting with your feet, your lower legs, your knees, your thighs, rising slowly up your body. Where there is currently grey you will see a nice, warm pink replacing it, giving a relaxed vitality to your body. Slowly, slowly rising up your body.”

With that thought, Monica began to almost feel numb. She tingled though as she thought of the pink rising up to her bum and encompassing her sex. Its progress then seemed to accelerate and it swept up her torso. She found her breathing was deeper. Then it was at her neck.

“That’s it, envisage it filling your head. Good, that’s good.”

Monica felt she was now in limbo, drifting in a pink haze. She was surprised that she had found it so easily to do what Harcourt had suggested. She guessed having been hypnotised most weeks for the last few months, plus not having to work, had already put her into a more relaxed frame of mind, so allowing Harcourt’s approach to take a deeper hold.

“Good.” Harcourt said almost inaudibly. “Now, the last component. Think of a perfect rose, your favourite colour, sitting against the warm pink which has filled you, now see the rose, smell it, sense it.”

Monica pictured a dark red rose against the pink background and it seemed to be so vivid.