Monica was nervous. In fact she had been nervous all day. She had been at her solicitors well, the ones she had had since late last week: Coleman, Wright & Hart. Two days ago she had reached the stage of no turning back: her flat was sold. This morning, however, back at their office, she had become the apprehensive owner of a Docklands flat. It had turned out that her golden hello and what she had in savings was enough for a deposit, even if today’s auction fell through. She had hoped somehow that something would slip up and she would be able to call the whole thing off. However, she had found that whenever she even considered that a lethargy swept over that. In contrast, surprisingly for her, the nervousness had spawned excitement which had sustained her through the legal procedures. That buzz had now subsided a little and with more sober eyes she realised that as yet, she had not even been able to face the thought of what all of these changes would mean to her everyday life. She had a couple of weeks before she had to be moved and distantly understood that she needed to book a removal company. Though her new flat was larger than the old, she was still feeling an itch to purge a lot of her belongings before she went.

Given the fact that the auction had arrived, Monica had been awoken to the fact that in all the confusion of her last session with Harcourt, the passports and the painting had slipped her mind. She was eager to talk about the former, but maybe the picture would remain her secret. The passports now seemed rather distant given all the other concerns with the flats she had had in the intervening period, but they remained like an old phobia that she was not eager to explore but felt she would have to if she was truly going to resolve that issue.

“Ms. Chase?”

Monica turned to see Alexander. She was pleased to note how his eyes double took when she acknowledged that it was her. That morning, for some reason, she had felt very confident and an urge to appear sexy. She had to acknowledge that it was probably the thought of meeting Alexander or a man like him that had driven her thoughts that way.

At first Monica had worried that she had gone a little too far, but the idea that today, rather than the businesswoman about town, she played the sophisticate, a lady at leisure, pursuing her interests, had taken root. She wore her leather blazer buttoned tight with her long hair hanging over the front of her left shoulder. Concealed beneath the jacket was her barley shade silk camisole, so that the ‘v’ made by the tight lapels of the jacket just revealed nicely toned skin. She felt a little cheeky to have added the platinum ‘y’ necklace which drew a viewer’s eye downward to the top of her breasts. Beneath the jacket were her favourite new leather trousers that combined with the jacket seemed to make a suit of sleek leather. Emerging from the trousers were the patent ankle boots she had come to love. The fact that her body appeared so smooth and shiny in these clothes made her tingle and had given her a strength that she was not finding difficult to sustain.

“Good Morning, Mr. Miller.”

“Call me Alexander.” He smiled.

Monica was pleased, pleased that he was here and that he had responded positively to her simple gambit. “Moni…, Monique.” She replied trying to give it as much of a French intonation as she dared.

“So, it looks like a good crowd, Monique.” Alexander stated as he ran his eyes over the auction room.

“Ah, but the question is, do they like what I am offering?” Monica asked coyly.

“Well, you’ve cleared the reserve on book bids already, I know that. So, even if no-one here’s interested, putting it up for auction has sold it for you. However, I’m willing to bet it’ll go higher. Courdure’s pieces may not be large or overly exceptional, but there’s something magical about them and that appeals to the fantasies of some collectors; a few of the more romantic ones are in the room for the miniatures anyway. In addition it’s been sixteen years since the last Courdure has come to auction, so rarity might add something. You should read the story of the Baroness, a book on her came out in the Sixties.”

“Yes, I’d be interested. Can you suggest where I might find a copy?”

Monica flushed as the words came out realising she had somehow slipped into flirtation mode. Guilt about Glen, who she had not seen for coming on for a fortnight, pricked her too. She tried to rein herself back in, worried that she had somehow summoned the spirit of Monique by using her name and it was now her that was driving what came from Monica’s mouth.

“Yes, I am sure I can. Would you like to discuss some possible vendors over lunch?”

“Certainly.” Monica smiled.

In her mind something asked what she thought she was doing, but it was a distant voice that seemed overwhelmed by the personality of this woman who would walk clad neck to foot in black leather to watch her painting come up for auction. A more rational element said it was only lunch, nothing more. However, a more wicked part of her, one that may have come from Monique, saw it as the first step to feeling what those long fingers would be like stroking her pussy.

“I’ll collect you when the auction’s finished?”

“Alexander, I look forward to it.” Monica replied, now feeling at ease with the falsified French accent.

“Here, have this seat, so I’ll know where to find you.”

“You’re worried that I’ll run off?”

“No, as I know I’d enjoy chasing you. It’s just I don’t want you getting too tired, well, not just yet.”

With a smile Alexander was gone. Monica looked to the front as the auction started. She could not resist crossing and uncrossing her legs to see how the smooth leather reflected the light and to hear the gentle, sensuous creak of her trousers. Then the auction had begun in earnest. On one hand, Monica was certain this was the first one she had visited; on the other it seemed all so familiar. She followed the progress through all the miniatures tempted at times to bid for one, but holding back as she realised she could so easily spend more than she would make from her own picture. Whilst she had arranged the purchase of the new flat already, she knew there would be many more expenses to cover before she had moved in entirety.

The auction passed quickly. Monica found she enjoyed viewing those who were bidding. Many of them looked like typical businesspeople and were appropriately dressed in suits, but others were more casually dressed and she took them to be simply wealthy, leisured individuals. In particular there was a woman, a little older than her, in a dark red sheath dress and Monica imagined she was some recording artist, partly, as like the other distinctive woman there, she wore sunglasses. The other woman was older, probably in her mid to late forties wearing a mohair sweater and black jodhpurs running into slim leather boots that were black bar a dark tan portion at her calf. Monica felt a degree of excitement as for the thousandth time she admired her leathers and now thought how well she fitted in this environment; no-one would question that she truly belonged here.

Monica’s attention returned to the sale when she heard lot number fifty-nine called, this was her painting. The auctioneer, a man in his fifties turned to see it brought on to the stage where he was positioned.

“This is a Jacob De Courdure, thought to be the 1737 or 1738 painting in his series of the Baroness De Laroche. This painting is new to the market and I have a number of book bids already…”

As the auctioneer went through the ritual of the book bids competing against each other, Monica sat there breathless. The opening bid had exceeded her year’s salary at Blackburn & Frost. Alexander certainly seemed to know his business as the bids climbed, soon joined by ones in the room. Monica twisted back and forth trying to catch sight of who was bidding, but then stopped as she feared she might accidentally put in a bid for her own painting. The bidding ended a few thousand pounds higher than Alexander’s estimate and Monica knew that she had become a reasonably rich woman in a matter of minutes. Of course Burghley’s would take their cut, but she recognised that she had more than sufficient to guarantee her mortgage payments well into the next decade.

Monica sat in her place until the end of the auction then went to make arrangements regarding the sale. As these were concluded she turned to find Alexander behind her, putting a shielding arm around her.

“Thank you for that.” She said pressed her lips to his cheek.

“My pleasure, you got a good price. However, lunch is on me.”

“I look forward to it, lead on.”

In minutes they had completed the short taxi ride to a discreet Mayfair restaurant. Monica could certainly not complain. Though she never liked the sense that she had been ‘bought’ by a good meal or other gifts, she certainly was not averse to being treated this way. As she stepped into the restaurant which was shady and low lit even at lunchtime, she checked herself. When had she ever been to a place like this to make any judgements on what her ‘normal’ behaviour was? She suspected that her Monique side was playing a subtler game than before and rather than pushing itself into the driving seat was now simply shouting helpful directions from the back seat. Monica wondered whether that was a result of the relaxation exercises or if, overall, Harcourt’s treatment of her condition was coming close to a successful conclusion.

For now, Monica concentrated on the task in hand, allowing herself to be guided to a nice table and handed a menu. Soon she was enjoying duck and red currants as an hors d’oeuvre followed by some delicious venison with crisp vegetables and ending with tarte pomme tatin. Maybe the fruit was too much, but with a strong coffee to finish, she felt the flavours had been well balanced. The ten-year old Tignanello wine, she recognised, had been an excellent selection on Alexander’s part. Distantly she wondered where she knew this from, but the good food and Alexander’s interesting stories about Courdure and the work of the auction house in general, meant that such thoughts came no closer to being dealt with.

Now, however, with the meal coming to an end, as Monica looked over at Alexander, she felt conflicted. One part of her wanted to have him the way he clearly desired. She was sure he would be a competent enough lover and she looked forward to having his fingers toying with her. However, another part of her wished for something more, something defined by herself. She certainly did not want anyone to feel they could make assumptions about her and that was what she feared had happened in this case. A plan began to form in her mind that a few months ago would have seemed outrageous, but now, she could not deny, seemed so deliciously wicked. Monica tried to dismiss the thoughts from her mind, but they would not go, instead they seemed to grow and take on even greater excitement for her.

Monica sipped her coffee; pure properly ground coffee had increasingly become something she found she was demanding. It had been a good meal and she had enjoyed Alexander’s company but, almost without thinking, more through intuition, she began putting a game in place. Monica paused for a moment, worrying that it was Monique that was moving into the driving seat, but there were none of the telltale signs. Instead she felt that the urges to carry out her plan and experience the outcome, were genuinely her own.

“Thank you for lunch, Alexander. I have to go now, but it would be nice to meet up again.”

“My pleasure. Are you in such a hurry? I wondered if we could spend some time together?”

“Your flat is convenient?”

Alexander’s eyes flashed as Monica had read his mind. “Yes, yes it is.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Unfortunately, I still have some business to attend to.”

Monica stood straightening her smooth leathers with unnecessary slowness, suggesting to Alexander what it might be like to hold her dressed this way. She half expected his tongue to loll in his mouth, but she was pleased to see he was too much of a gentleman for that, and she forgave his reluctance to stand as she guessed it was provoked by the arousal she was stirring in him. She leant forward to kiss him on the cheek then turned on her heel and walked languidly from the restaurant, wishing she had worn a slightly shorter jacket that would have shown her tightly held bum to him as the leather strained around it with every step she took.

Outside Monica expected her plan to evaporate, but it gathered momentum. She was surprised to find she was quickly analysing what she needed and as she walked away from Mayfair she was soon making phone calls. She realised that she should know the necessary numbers, but a couple of quick calls to one of the many directory enquiries services soon produced them for her and she understood that next time something like this came to mind she would be far better prepared.

Monica glanced up from her coffee for the thousandth time. The hints of nervousness about what she was doing kept on being held in check and yet again she was made aware of the potential delightful outcomes. Throughout the afternoon Monica had almost felt as if Monique was hovering at her shoulder, reining her in when Monica’s inexperience led her down paths which verged on the criminal. Monica’s excitement at the power she felt had brought her to consider hiring a van and abducting Alexander until she had realised it was unlikely to lead to the kind of evening she was hoping for and even if she was not arrested, Alexander would be in no fit state to service her in the way she desired. Monique had been there too when Monica’s enthusiasm had flagged and she had considered packing up and heading home. She had brought up the usual remedy of shopping and Monica had to agree that she did feel good now with her leathers stashed in storage and herself in a style reminiscent of a 1960s movie: a monochrome dogtooth check suit with a trim fitted jacket over a smart white blouse and with a smooth fronted thigh-length skirt that allowed these lovely stockings and sleek pointed ankle boots to be viewed. She had guessed Alexander would be less likely to spot her in the busy evening London crowd than if she had retained her lovely but pretty distinctive leather outfit.

There he was. Monica was in no real hurry. She had managed to get his address without too much difficulty so she did not really need to tail him, just to ensure he did not head somewhere else, for example for drinks with colleagues or friends. Monica had paid already so finishing her coffee she got on Alexander’s track. Soon they were plunging into Marylebone and as the press of people thinned, Monica held back, glancing in shop windows or making a pretence of looking in her handbag as excuses to keep back. Alexander seemed pretty oblivious and Monica wondered if turning him down at lunchtime had dented his day.

Soon Alexander was at the door of his flat which itself was hidden away well above street level in one of Marylebone’s grand Victorian buildings. Monica had sabotaged the door earlier that day. Probably not noticeable to many of the residents, most of who would presumably not be reaching home for a while yet, some transparent tape now stopped their door closing properly. Once her criminal urges had faded, Monica had worried whether this counted as breaking and entering, but a minute after Alexander had entered the block Monica followed, simply opening the door. She prided herself that, as she passed through it, she was able to eliminate all evidence of her crime with a deft move. For an instant she felt as if she were Linda Fiorentio’s character at the end of ‘The Last Seduction’ and smiled to herself as she wondered whether that was really a suitable role model. She guessed it was if she did not take it too far; after all the idea of role models was to emulate their positive elements rather than trying to become a replica. In moments, anyway, she was up the stairs and standing outside Alexander’s door, giving him a few minutes to get settled before she pounced.

Monica counted to ten and rang the doorbell. She wondered if Alexander would know that it came from inside the apartment house rather than someone on the street and so would simply think it was one of his neighbours. As he opened the door with a look of immediate surprise, Monica guessed she had had one of her assumptions confirmed. However, there was no time to consider that as she pushed forward forcing Alexander to back up. Monica had had a guided tour of a very similar flat up for sale a street away so had a fair idea of the layout, but it was only now that she saw how his furniture was distributed. For her purposes the large leather armchairs with stainless steel armrests were better than she could have hoped for.

With her mouth and tongue, Monica silenced Alexander’s questions. She guided him more with her body, especially her chest, than her hands so that he was manoeuvred towards one of the armchairs rather than the sofa. As she had surmised, he was not putting up much of a struggle, but with her free hand, Monica retrieved the soft leather-lined handcuffs that she had bought just hours before, from her handbag. As she had hoped, he stumbled back to end up seated in the chair. In an instant she had clasped his left wrist in her hand and seconds later the cuff locked on to it. She had worked out the next move carefully using the armchair in the hotel room she had rented for the afternoon as her base of operations. Of course, if he struggled it could be difficult, especially given his size. However, he was in a stunned and playful mood and let her move the wrist across his body so the free cuff could be locked to the right arm of the chair.

Monica smiled broadly, feeling invigorated by her success. An added buzz came when she realised that she was doing this, her, not her seeing it through some vision from four years previously. Now she caught hold of Alexander’s shoulders and shoved him to the floor, twisting round as Monica had planned so he was now sat facing the seat. Monica walked around him and lowered herself into the chair, putting her legs wide apart so that at the level of his eyes Alexander could see little bar her naked pussy beneath her lovely new skirt. If he had had any doubts up until this stage, Monica was sure Alexander now understood that if he was to have her, it would be on the terms she set.

“Put those fingers to use if you want to go free.” Monica said, stunned at the words coming from her mouth, though knowing they reflected her genuine desires.

Alexander gave her a broad grin, clearly realising that this was an exciting game rather than something intimidating.

“Certainly.” He knelt up and began running his fingers up Monica’s stockinged leg.

Monica felt a sensation as if Monique was going to take over, but she was determined to have this one fully to herself and reasserted her plan.

“Certainly what, worm?”

“Certainly, mistress.”

“Much better.”

Monica felt a genuine burst at pleasure at Alexander’s submission. In that moment she grasped, for certain, that, as she had only suspected up until now, there was a dominating streak to her personality. Monica realised, that, to some extent that was what all of this had been about, why she had not just gone with Alexander after the lunch. Monica quivered as those thoughts collided with the sensation of Alexander’s long, firm hands stroking her inner thigh. She felt her pussy was softening quickly and she understood why, given the range of her sexual encounters, Monique often favoured leather over fabric; it coped so much better with the juices her body would produce. This was not the time for such thoughts, however, for now the focus had to be on deriving pleasure from what Alexander was about to do to her. Then it began. The long fingers trapped her pussy lips between them, pleasurably constraining them before reaching up to knuckle her arousing clitoris. Then the little finger slipped inside her as if to test the water and, finding a welcome, was joined by more.

Monica had breathlessly thrown back her head and closed her eyes as if to squeeze every last drop from the sensation of this hard presence in her sex, squirming in such a delicious way, hard but flexible and wide reaching the way no cock could be thus bringing her to climax so quickly. Now with the orgasm spent, she lowered her head and pushed her eyes open to taken in the scene of Alexander’s hand pushed deep in her while he was shackled like a toy to service her. The thought of possessing this man in this particular way, to pleasure her so directly made Monica shudder with pleasure, the mental wave doubling the physical sensation she was experiencing.

Monica realised that she was not so much of a bitch, well maybe not yet, not to think of Alexander’s pleasure. In addition, he had played along with minimal resistance and that might be something she would want to sustain and develop for the future. However, she had no real desire to do too much. Now she had dominated him and had proof that what she had thought about his fingers was true, Monica wanted the session to be at an end, certainly without any need for her to abase herself. Then a new thought came into her mind. Initially she wondered if it had been fed to her by Monique, but, with a growing pleasure, she was coming to see that she could originate such sexy thoughts of her own.

“Stand.” Monica ordered simply.

Alexander manoeuvred awkwardly to his feet, held in a stooping position by the handcuff. Monica shot out her legs and with her booted feet steered him roughly around so his bum faced towards her. Now with him so uncomfortable, and more than that, helpless, she stood. She wrapped her arms around his waist and in less than a minute had pulled his trousers down to his ankles followed by the soft cotton pants below. She resumed her seat and reaching between his legs that she pulled apart, she grasped the end of his hard cock. It was a good weight in her hands. Plans of manipulating a man this way when her hands were coated in long black leather gloves, not opera length, just eight to ten centimetres or beyond her wrist, came to mind. For now she used her bare hands. It was clear she already had Alexander highly aroused. Maybe she had some knack for picking out men with a submissive streak. She knew she liked a mixed diet and a man that she would have to wrestle with could also be exciting, but she also recognised she got a buzz for using them this way, like something truly to be toyed with. She cupped his balls in one hand and stroked his cock sensuously, not wondering where she had learnt to do this so well, just pleased that she had.

Alexander bucked, groaning out his pleasure. He jerked painfully against the cuff but that seemed to simply take him higher. Soon he was squirting full loads of jism and Monica was glad it was his carpet beneath. Even after his ejaculation, Monica saw him shuddering to the aftershocks that were running through him. She was pleased at what she had done and finally released the tall man to slump on the floor. With her business complete Monica stood and half as a jest placed her patent toe against his lips and quivered as he kissed it firmly. Within a few minutes she was back on the street, feeling as if she was walking on feathers, a really good sensation running right through her from her core to her skin.

Monica stood on her narrow balcony and gazed out across the stretch of water and the bar and gym opposite. At this time of day, mid-morning, there were few people moving around and despite being near the centre of one of the World’s great cities it was quiet. Monica had been in the flat for just a week and after all the chaos of the removals and the packing and unpacking, the final piece, that distinctive leather bed, had been put into place the day before. Now she felt that the place was hers. Of course there was not everything that she had had here before, but who wanted to repeat the styles of four years ago? Some judicious shopping online, though, had secured her some delightful paintings and prints by a couple of artists working around Lyons.

Thinking about that city was always a little odd as at the same time it seemed familiar and yet she felt she had never actually been there. Yesterday, as she had lay back on her new bed and felt for herself the strange sensation as if she was floating above the floor, for the first time in a while, she thought of Harcourt. With the move, there had been no need to see him. In addition, she had not been aware of Monique intruding into her life either when she was awake or asleep. That had to be an improvement, she guessed. Maybe her time having appointments with Dr. Harcourt was coming to an end. She realised that this was a good thing, but now with all the distractions of the move gone, she felt rather dissatisfied with the outcome. She wondered if it was because she had expected some revelation about Monique’s life when in fact, if Harcourt was right, it had simply some mental condition brought about by stress that she had been feeling.

Today, with the doctor’s arrival imminent, Monica tried to rein in her expectations and tell herself, that he would either say his treatment was at an end or would be unable to stimulate anything more than a vision of a mundane incident from Monique’s life. She told herself, though, that whatever the conclusion, even if it was simply talking about Harcourt’s featuring of her in his book, she needed to wrap this up before she started work at Maskell HD and the final part of what she was coming to see as her new life, fell into place.

A little impatiently, Monica walked to the long mirror that stood in the corner of the lounge. She admired herself in the mirror. As she liked, her make-up was subtle and her long brunette hair hung loose down her back. She wore a short cotton-silk jacket striped grey/black over a bodice top again in black and detailed with silk ribbons criss-crossing down the front. Beneath were soft black leather trousers that felt so good on her and matched the leather slippers she wore in the flat most mornings.

The doorbell rang and Monica went to release the door at the front. It had to be Harcourt and suddenly she found her sense of anticipation was replaced by a concern about having everything correct. She picked up the passports she had left out on the ornate dark wood cabinet. She did not know what to say about them, really. They seemed simply to confirm what Harcourt had told her all along. It was more that she had forgotten to mention them at her last session with him, and if today was to be about conclusions, she wanted them covered. She picked up the book about Jacob Courdure and put it on the bookshelves that filled one wall of the room. It was the only thing of length written about the man, an academic publication that had come out in 1958 and which a book dealer in Montpellier had managed to find for her. Monica was reluctant to confess that her French was better than she had remembered, but had enjoyed finding out a little more about this rather mysterious painter and his aristocratic clients. She hesitated from shelving it properly, wanting to dip back into it again later and instead rested it on the set of nineteenth century copies of Dumas’s complete works that she had bought in an antiques shop in Notting Hill the previous weekend. The French was old fashioned, but again she was pleasantly surprised to find herself getting quickly into it.

Maybe her qualms, her embarrassment, were simply pride. She knew these were things Monique enjoyed or would have enjoyed and to have them, especially here, was almost like throwing up her hands and saying to Harcourt, ‘you win’; as if the passports had not been enough for that result anyway. Again, Monica tried to remind herself, that this had not been a battle of wills, but in fact a doctor leading her from a condition that had been causing difficulties in her life, to a better state. Maybe she was now more like Monique than a few months ago, but at least no longer did she fugue out in the middle of doing something. Monica went to the door and opened it so a few moments later Harcourt could walk in without having to ring again. The doctor smiled broadly as he came in.

“Nice to see you Monique. This is a lovely place. You looked well settled in.”

“Erm, yes, it’s nice now everything’s unpacked.”

“Did you bring everything from your old flat?”

Harcourt followed Monica’s lead into the living room. While she took one of the leather armchairs, he took the other, leaving the sofa empty between them.

“Well, I had a bit of a clear out. This place is bigger, but I’ve found I’ve been buying a lot of new clothes recently, cosmetics, that kind of thing.” Monica explained.

Monica felt a little on edge, partly pleased to be able to show Harcourt, her first real visitor, how nicely she had the flat, but also somehow self-conscious about what comments he might make.

“Lovely pictures.”

“Thank you. They’re from France, the region around Lyons. They just seemed to fit.”

“Yes, they suit the flat very well. It’s nice and quiet here.”

“Yes, you’d hardly believe that we’re so close to Central London.”

“Convenient for work, I imagine, too. Have you started at, who was it now, that’s it, Maskell HD?”

“No, Monday’s the big day.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Surprisingly not. I think that’s partly as I don’t feel it’s really me going to work there. They have me down as Monique Chase.”

“You’ve not tried to alter that?”

“Well, I don’t really know where I stand legally. I applied under that name, and erm, well, there’s …”

“What? Is this why you’ve called me? Has something happened? Have the fugues returned?”

“Erm, no, I want to discuss that in a minute, there’s just these…”

Monica stood and crossed to the cabinet. She took the passports and brought them to Harcourt. She handed them to him. He looked at the covers before opening them.

“I see.”

“Well, aren’t you going to say, ‘I told you so’?”

“No, Monique, I’m a doctor. It’s nice to have one’s diagnoses confirmed by other sources, but your welfare is paramount. I see now that I may have overlooked that your reluctance to accept that you were, are, Monique was something of a coping mechanism rather than the outright denial I took it for. You accept these as authentic?”

“I guess so.”

“How did you come by them?”

“A package was sent to Maskell HD with a key to a safety deposit box in a Swiss bank here in London. It came from someone in Singapore called Carole who knew Monique. I have emailed her, but there’s been no response. Anyway, in the box there were these and some other papers, birth certificate, etc. Monique’s birthdate was the same day as mine.”

“Right. Was there anything else?”

“Well, erm, yes, I suppose I have to confess it.”

“Confess what?” Harcourt leant in closer.

“There was a painting, a small one, eighteenth century. Erm, well I sold it. It raised a good deal of money, it certainly helped out with the move.”

“And why do you feel that you had to ‘confess’ that? You do not accept it was yours to sell?”

“Yes, I’m worried Monique’s going to come out the woodwork and want her painting back.”

“Monique has come out of the ‘woodwork’. Don’t you see that? It was your painting.”

Monica felt a little reassured but again the implications remained unsettling.

“Okay, we’ll leave that for the moment. You didn’t outline why you called yesterday. Did you suffer another fugue or some situation where you felt ‘Monique’ took control?”

“No, no, I’ve not had anything like that for over a week and the last few incidents have been very mild. In fact I found I was able to re-assert myself on each occasion. It was more me simply tapping into Monique’s experiences of things to guide me.”

“As you would review your own experiences before you decided on doing something new?”

“Well, I suppose so, but I have no experience of auction houses. I know, I’ll save you your breath, ‘but of course I do’, that’s what you’d say isn’t it?”

Harcourt simply nodded, giving a smile that succeeded in being reassuring rather than patronising as he did.

“So, if there have not been more fugues, what are you seeking from today’s session?”

“Some kind of closure. I guess that your treatment is coming to its end. The condition I first talked with you about has faded away as a result of your actions, and I accept, I might have to meet up for a check-up once in a while, but I imagine you’ll be writing this all up for your book. Sorry, that’s not answering your question.”

Monica stopped talking and breathed in slowly as if clearing her slate and starting afresh. This time her words were more measured.

“One thing that has surprised me…”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of Monique’s life, but as yet there is no indication of who or what inflicted this mind control on her.”

“On you.”

“Well, if what you have said is true, or if the truth is closer to the line I cannot seem to dismiss, surely, by now, I would have some sign of what happened.”

“Not necessarily. The one thing the mind controller would take efforts to protect, above all, is his or her identity. Even if the rest of their mental construction collapses, they would ensure that you could not find out who they were.”

“I guess so, but it is clear this structure that’s been put in place in my mind is falling apart; you said it had been rushed. So, maybe I’ll be lucky and be able to see who was behind it or at least the circumstances in which it happened.”

“Maybe, but for the reasons I’ve outlined, I think it is unlikely. I think the important thing for you to remember is that we need to get you back to your own life, the life of Monique Chase. You need to concentrate on looking forward not back…”

“But…”

Harcourt held up a hand to signal Monica should be patient. “Yes, you’ll argue that all you’ve seen is pictures from the past, but they’ve been doing important jobs in restoring your skills and knowledge. You’ve noticed it yourself, how you managed to succeed at the interview, to sell your house, to auction a painting, how your grasp of French is improving. You told me that these were things you never could have done as Monica. Restoring yourself to being Monique has helped achieve those positive gains, has it not?”

It was an old argument from Harcourt and she felt that she was resisting his claim that she had been Monique now more out of habit than conviction. Looking at her life as it had become in the past weeks it was certainly easier to see herself being Monique than it had been when she first met Harcourt. She worked for almost the same company, she lived in exactly the same flat, her current wardrobe put what she had previously worn to shame, and more than that, seemed in step with what she knew Monique favoured.

“Yes, I suppose so. But I’d still like to see who did it.”

“For the right motives? To exact revenge? It was four years ago. Why not seek revenge against your ex-husband too? Surely he’d be easy to track down. Where does it end? I certainly would advise against anything of that kind. You’ve made huge steps in the past few months and I certainly would encourage you not to jeopardise that.” Harcourt explained in a rather exasperated tone, suggesting that Monica’s thoughts were foolish.

Monica realised she had not wanted revenge at all. She really did not feel animosity towards Robert let alone anyone else he had been wrapped up with. If she could not condemn the instigator of what had happened to her how could she attack the person he had used as a tool to carry it out?

“No, I had not thought of that. It is more that throughout what has happened to me, the fugues and everything, I have always assumed it was for a purpose. I imagine you would say the purpose was to restore me to who I was before. However, I have rather built up the expectation that there would be some answer in all that I saw.”

“And you think you have reached that stage?”

“Yes, I guess so. I have not had a fugue in some time. Even the milder visions seemed to have gone. Now I worry I will be left with the story incomplete and though that wouldn’t kill me, I certainly feel that with all the changes I have been through recently I at least want to have some kind of closure: the circle to be closed.”

“I understand. I am glad you have told me those things, because I agree. I wanted to ensure that your motives in seeking the remaining pieces of the puzzle were genuine. You certainly seem ready. As before, though, I would warn you that whilst I can nudge your visions in a particular direction I cannot guarantee that you will hit on what you are seeking and certainly I cannot ensure that you will see all that you want to see.”

“I understand. However, I think my mind has come to want to see this final aspect and would certainly go along that path if you can at least ‘nudge’ it.”

“Okay, but please don’t be disappointed if you see something different.”

“I won’t be.” Monica responded though she realised that that was partly a lie.

“Right, relax. Focus on the end of the pen, watch it move back and forth, back and forth. As I count down from twenty you will find yourself falling deeper and deeper into a trance. Twenty, ninet…”

Monique found herself stepping from a rain soaked pavement and walking into a restaurant. She threw back the broad hood of her coat and smiled towards the maitre d’. “Monique Chase, I’m to ‘do dinner’.”

“Yes, of course, Miss. Chase.”

Monique was led across the large restaurant that through the clever use of low lighting retained an intimacy. She glanced around the room as she did habitually. She was partly seeing if her leather coat, specially made for her in Camden, held like a corset along her torso and stretching almost to the floor, attracted attention. This was the first occasion she had had a chance to wear it. It certainly did its duty in keeping the dress beneath dry, but more than that, it made a real statement and Monique felt a little like a vampire baroness sweeping into a Vienna salon. However, something that she sensed, rather than saw, from the corner of her eye made her stop. It was Robert. He was sat at a table with a man and two women. She recognised the long blonde hair and then the heavily made-up face of Annette, one of the two women she had found Robert cheating on her with. For an instant Monique wondered if he had been as brazen as to bring his other mistress, Sylvie, too. However, from what she could see of the other woman, this one was too old to take Robert’s fancy.

Monique wondered why they were here. It looked like some combination between a social and a business occasion. The man did not look like Robert’s boss, Hugo, but then again, she had no idea if Robert had changed jobs since the split or was now looking to do so. Then, it was almost as if Monique’s thoughts had betrayed her presence as Robert looked directly her way and gave her a withering stare. Annette scowled too before she turned back to the other woman. In turn, this one now seemed to have had her interest piqued by Monique’s presence and looked her way, though seemingly still talking to Annette. As the woman’s eyes fell upon Monique she felt something like a wave of force butting against her, a strange sensation only increased when the man turned his head to stare at her too. The couple, she assumed they were together, looked middle aged but there was something about the stiff way in which they moved that suggested they were older and kept this way by some exceptional means.

Monique felt assaulted by the four pairs of eyes now focused on her, and that surprisingly the stare of that couple was more unnerving than that of her soon-to-be ex-husband. She turned and walked quickly to catch the maitre d’. The ‘Doing Dinner’ table was in a side room. There were seats for twelve and two of those would be occupied by the male and female hosts. Tonight they were Serena and James. They smiled warmly at Monique. She returned the gesture. Monique surrendered her coat to a waiter to reveal the shimmering russet sleeveless dress she wore below. She looked for her name card and sat.

Whilst in the two months since she had joined ‘Doing Dinner’ she had not had a shortage of sexual partners, she still liked attending these events. The food was usually better than good and the company interesting. A couple of times she had met a man to rendezvous at a later date and in the meantime she had made a few sound friends among the women who came regularly. She had been pleased to find that rather than seeing each other as competitors a kind of sisterhood was developing between them.

“Evening Monique.”

Monique turned to see Carole, a lawyer she had crossed paths with during the previous year and who she had been pleased to find was a fellow member of the club. The shorter woman leaned in close to Monique’s ear.

“Did you see Robert next door?”

Monique realised Carole had asked to see photographs of him when she had first come to Monique’s flat.

“Yes, I did.”

“I’d watch out for those two they’re with. I overheard that woman and the one whose with Robert…”

“Annette.”

“Yes, her. Well, when I was in the toilet they were rather animated about you and Annette seemed only to be really relieved that this other one, Virginia I think was the name, and her husband, Donald, have something planned for you. It’s this divorce case, I’d heard it had got messy.”

“Yes, it has. I would have gone home; that couple spooked me, but running would mean I was conceding to Robert, he’s caused enough trouble for me, I’m not going to give into him any more.”

“Good on you girl. Keep an eye out for those two; I agree, from what I’ve seen of them, they look unsavoury.”

“If you don’t hit it lucky tonight, let’s meet up for a drink or something in the week for some post-match analysis.”

“Certainly, sounds good.”

“I’d better go and find my place, see if I’ve been put next to Lancelot this time.” Carole smirked and went to her slot further up the table.

For an instant Monica wondered about Monique’s friends. Whilst she had encountered her sexual partners and even seen her ex-husband in the flesh, she knew little about the social circle in which she moved. Maybe if she could track down some of these women then they could fill her in about what happened to Monique; was that what was being suggested to her now? Then there was the couple, what had it been: Virginia and Donald? Had they been work colleagues of Robert’s or something more sinister? They were unfamiliar to even Monique’s memories, but as she had already thought, there could be explanations for that.

Monique let her curiosity fade as her fellow diners came to the table. Throughout the course of the evening she enjoyed some nice parma ham, a delicious sea bass and a berry compot, with tasty wines accompanying each course. The company was not bad either. She admired the organisers’ skill. By the end of the evening she had spoken to Anthony, Guy, Aurek, Stephen and Rutajit. Of these she could imagine a brief, and of course sexual encounter with Aurek and Anthony; more with Stephen. The other two just seemed so focused on their work that she doubted they could pry their eyes from their computer screens long enough to notice her enter their room whether she was naked or concealed in the coat she had worn that evening. It was not a bad selection for the evening. Carole seemed to be getting on surprisingly well with Rutajit who seemed to have concerns in South-East Asia as well as Britain. She wondered if it was simply that she did not appeal to Rutajit and his distance had been a defence or whether Carole was more adept than her at faking interest. She would have to grill her the next time they met. Having finished their coffees the party broke up. Monique had some new numbers in her phone. She thanked her hosts and headed to the toilet before retrieving her coat.

The ladies’ toilet was surprisingly empty when she entered. Monique had never been one of those women who seemed unable to use one without being accompanied by a friend. She was startled, however, as moments after she had entered the cubicle the door was slammed open, banging loudly against the partition. Both Annette and the woman called Virginia stood there. The latter sprayed something in Monique’s direction. It smelt rich and soothing and she felt light-headed. She struggled to get clear of the women, unwilling to spoil the evening with a confrontation. However, she now felt weak and Annette had grasped her wrist while Virginia bent to her ear repeating some phrase that Monique could not make out.

There was an anger inside Monique but with every passing moment it slipped deeper beneath the fuzziness of her mind and the weakness of her body. Her fight or flight responses seemed to have been disengaged and she felt that she was witnessing everything through the wrong end of binoculars. Shortly she was out in the wet air. The rain had stopped but the coolness gave her a little burst of invigoration. However, she realised that whatever the two women had done to her had progressed too far for her to make any escape. She did not let fear take her and instead focused on what was around her and hopes of some rescue from Carole or some concerned passerby. However, her numbed back was soon being pressed forward and she was manoeuvred into the rear of a large black people carrier. Inside sat the man, what was his name? Robert she did recognise and the grin he gave made her sick: it was an expression that shouted triumph. For moments Monique worried that he had gone so far as to murder her, but she guessed he would not have assembled this team to achieve that, a simple blow to the back of the head as she left the restaurant or a hit-and-run accident as she crossed one of London’s busy roads would have sufficed. What was about to happen next was something different, but the whole set-up suggested that it was something sinister.

As Monique was pushed then buckled into a seat, she tried to focus on the face opposite her. It was that man. He smiled too, but his expression seemed warmer, more reassuring than that of her ex-husband. Despite how clogged her senses felt, surprisingly his voice came clearly to her ears.

“Now, it is time to say goodbye to Monique forever, don’t you think, Monica?” There was a clear American accent sounding in his voice.

Monique struggled to speak but her tongue was thick and lolled in her mouth. She tried to hold on to the thoughts she had had at least of the evening just gone, if nothing else, but the gentle rock of the man’s fingertip back and forth seemed so much more important and angrily she felt betrayed by her mind as it complied with the spoken instructions the man was feeding her, now almost subconsciously. She watched the swaying fingertip and fell herself slipping as if physically into somewhere which was black, but also warm and welcoming.

Monica awoke and shuddered. A sense of anger and of frustration was in her like a severe itch at the base of her spine. She started up from the chair as if seeking to prove she had not been as debilitated as Monique had been in the vision. She slumped back, glad it was over, but still feeling both cooling sweat on her and the pounding of her heart. She sat gazing at Harcourt, reassured there was no smile on his face, just happy with his familiar attentive expression.

“Monique, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, it was what I was looking for, I just didn’t expect it to be that scary. Whoah, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back.”

“What did you see? Was it what you had been hoping for?”

“Yes, yes, I think it was. Monique was sort of attacked. She was at a restaurant and Robert was there and his mistress and these other two, they were behind it.”

“Behind what?”

“Well, I think they must count as your mind controllers. I guess Robert and that woman of his, Annette, did the logistics while the couple worked their magic.”

“Couple?”

“Yes, a man and a woman, looked like husband and wife. She got Monique from the ladies and got the process started, kind of doped Monique. Then the man, what was his name? Then this Donald seems to have finished it off. It was hypnosis with the addition of a spray for the doping. Virginia and Donald: that was them. The last I saw was me in the back of some people carrier and this Donald hypnotising me as I was driven off somewhere. By then I was powerless to fight back, my body was so heavy and my brain just could not resist. He said something like, ‘goodbye Monique’, ‘hello to…’, to something else. That was the last I saw.”

Harcourt looked enthused and a little satisfied too as if Monica’s explanation had provided the answer. “Ah, yes, they must have been Donald and Virginia Laker. I’ve heard of them. He was a former stage hypnotist from the States. Apparently fled over here five or six years ago, just keeping ahead of a few lawsuits. He was getting old; he found it difficult to get bookings. There were rumours he had put his skills to other uses. Virginia was his agent, very pushy, very ambitious. The last I heard they died in a car crash outside Malaga, a year, two years back. Maybe someone else got their revenge in ahead of you, maybe they knew too much for someone to trust them staying around any longer, your guess is as good as mine.”

“So we are saying that this fugue was the one I was looking for?”

“Well, yes, I guess so. There’s two possible explanations and the answer’s probably somewhere between. You had been talking about who might have tampered with your mind and I’d have to say that those two have just come in as chief suspects, though it wouldn’t stand up in court. When you went into the fugue you were definitely trying to find the culprit for what happened to you and so your suspicions from four years ago might have been revived, especially now you knew what you were looking for. The Lakers might not have done it, Robert may have shopped around or Annette might have done the searching from what you say. I have no doubt Donald might have pulled it off. When you saw them, maybe they panicked, maybe Robert did and they all jumped in sooner than they had planned. The scenario may have been embellished by your mind, but I have to admit, what you saw was probably something like what happened.”

“So, case closed?” Monica asked tentatively.

“Erm, well, not really. That wasn’t why I started working with you: to find out who did this to you. You knew Robert or his family were behind it anyway. No, it was more about managing the breakdown of the control structure which had been put in place and allowing a smooth return to the woman you were. Do you feel that has been achieved? Do you Monique?”

“That’s a difficult question.”

“It’s meant to be.”

“What do you think?”

“Well, in my professional opinion, and this can only be based on what you have told me, you have recaptured much of your previous life. You are working for the same, well almost the same, company; you have recovered your flat. You appear to dress as you did and I can presume that you are returning to your previous sexual behaviour. But…”

“But what?” Monica asked abruptly, a little uneasy at admitting the comments about the sex were right.

“I still don’t feel that you wake in the morning thinking you’re Monique, rather that you are Monica experiencing something unusual, unexpected, pleasant maybe, but not authentic for you.”

Monica had to admit that that was the case. She thought Harcourt was over-emphasising the sexual aspect, she was certainly not getting through men at the speed she had in her fugues. Maybe that did tell her she was not really Monique.

“So you think I should try harder to be Monique?”

“You are Monique, but maybe there’s debris remaining from what the Lakers did that is holding you back from entirely becoming yourself again; how do the French put it - comfortable in your own skin?”

“So what would achieve that?”

“Well, we talked about the sluice gates and letting out what had been built up behind the dam. A lot of the pressure which was there has drained away, flowed safely into your own life. Either over the next few weeks we can work to drain away the rest or we can do something a little more direct and take down the remains of dam entirely. The effect of that can be different on different people. You might find you forget a great deal of your life as Monica given that it was all part of the Lakers’ construct, but instead you would have full access to your true memories, Monique.”

That explanation suddenly seemed exciting to Monica, to shed the artificial life she had been living and to gain everything of her true life, one that was relevant to her new job and home and lifestyle.

“Yes, do it. I believe it’s for the best.” Monica said firmly, in a way that she never would have done three months earlier.

“If you feel that is the case, then there’s no time to waste.”

Monica lent back and relaxed and focused on Harcourt’s pen as once again he began the hypnosis. She felt carried along by the impetuousness of it and Harcourt’s enthusiasm, only as she looked carefully at the pen did doubts creep in. She dismissed them, though, with the thought that maybe that had been the prime inhibitor the Lakers had installed, the thing that kept her in the personality they had built: the sense of uncertainty about doing anything decisive.

“Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…”

This time Monica felt she was jumping into the cold pool of water, but rather than fearing what she might knock into she welcomed the exhilaration of the experience.

Monique awoke. She glanced at her watch. She must have been working too hard over the past week. It was unlike her to fall asleep in her chair in the middle of the morning. She decided she needed to take a bit of time to reinvigorate herself. She wanted something stylish. She replaced her bodice and jacket with a black lace-edged camisole and a longer blazer of brocade flowers, loose, midnight blue silk blend trousers and pointed lattice shoes finished the look. Within twenty minutes she was striding confidently across the bridge deciding on first a massage at the gym and then a light lunch at the bar, and, if she could arrange it, some man to fill the afternoon.

Whilst she had clearly charmed the waiter who seemed to love the French tinges to her accent, Monique had soon realised that he was probably gay and anyway was on shift well into the evening. Duty called for the few men in the gym too. She had felt a little disappointed, thinking she would have to fall back on a vibrating friend before she remembered Roland. While it was a little early in the day for him to be making appointments, he had responded warmly to Monique’s call. She imagined he enjoyed having a chance to speak in French as well as some decent sex. He also seemed genuinely keen to see Monique’s flat. He had given her an hour. That time, rather than leaving her frustrated as she had anticipated had allowed her arousal to grow. Now she was freshly bathed and clad in a loose kimono and pyjama trousers in dark blue silk that felt so delicious against her clean skin as she moved. She stayed away from the thought of Roland’s hands running over the slippery material.

Monique calmed herself with a new bottle of cognac while she waited. With work resuming next week, she realised, this would be one of the last opportunities for real decadence in the afternoon. That seemed a shame and she began thinking of the men she might now come into contact with and how she could arrange for a lover that she could sneak off to spend time with here in the afternoon. Monique buzzed at the thought of both the chase and the illicit pleasures that the result could provide her. Then the doorbell rang. Monique strode to it regally, keen to savour every last drop of this afternoon’s entertainment. She opened the door to a Roland clad in clothes that could easily be a male version of one of her outfits: all in black, a long leather coat over a clinging top and butter-smooth leather trousers. Monique smiled, pleased that he had taken sufficient cues from her to try to match what he now expected would be to her taste.

“Roland, I’m pleased you could make it.” Monique said in French.

“I’m pleased to be here.” He responded in kind.

Monique caught Roland’s hand in her own and led him to the sofa as if he was a nervous lover. She turned and pushed the coat from him so that her eager hands could explore his hard body. She pressed in close and kissed, his own hands pulling her tightly against him and his hard flesh. He twisted in her grasp and Monique realised that he was parting her kimono so her naked nipples now were tantalisingly brushing over his chest. This was so good and she was pleased she had summoned him. This time, she realised it was not about the power relationship, more about the sensuality, engaging with every part of her body. The combination of silk and leather was a good start.

Soon Monique found herself being manoeuvred back against the sofa as her tongue entwined with Roland’s. One of his hands clasped the back of her head and lay her on the sofa’s leather while the other spread her legs then pulled down her trousers to reveal her sodden pussy below. Then his touch was gone for a few moments and Monique felt bereft. Then it was back with delightful grasps of her breasts and tingling stroking of her sides. Monique realised she was as taut as a violin string, her body far more fired up by the waiting than she had realised. Roland, however, had read her so well and she felt the ridged texture of his rubbered cock, butting gently against her soaked pussy lips. She emitted a gasp as sensation fired inside her. It was impossible that she could yet be at orgasm but there was such an energy coursing inside her that she knew she was already on a high sexual plateau.

Then the head of Roland’s cock entered her. His position kneeling before her, driving up into her pressed his hard flesh against her g-spot and she gasped, spluttering for air as she shuddered backwards with an orgasm. However, Roland’s action did not cease and he thrust harder into her leaving her body no chance to fall far from the peak. As his tongue ran between her breasts and then looped around first the left and the right and his fingers teased at the soft skin in the small of her back, Monique screeched as orgasm again swept her. She had no control of her body as it was provided with stimulation that locked her mind into this pleasurable zone.

Breathless, Monique let her head fall against Roland’s shoulder. For a moment his hands deserted her again and in her dulled state she guessed he was fully shedding her trousers. The sound of his heart in her ear kept her distracted until she found herself lifted and borne to her bedroom. There was no escape for her as she was cast across the width of the bed and Roland plunged on her again. His cock kept its incessant thrusting with long deep strokes that brought so much sensation. His pace accelerated as Monique’s breathing did and then she felt his fingers find her clitoris and she yielded all initiative. Her body was no longer her own, just a vessel to receive the crashing waves of pleasure. Monique spasmed at the climax with her limbs jerking and her throat issuing barbaric grunts. She let her head loll and caught her breath. Her body was hot and cold with sweat. Then as Roland issued a quick grunt to show he had achieved his satisfaction, Monique was stunned by the aftershocks, gentler but still blinding waves of orgasms that seemed to echo for minutes throughout her. Eventually she batted Roland away and he slumped beside her. Monique lay exhausted, barely daring to breathe and struggling to refocus her mind from the blinding white space into which it had been thrust.

As Monique walked to her table with the coffee she caught sight of herself reflected in the café’s window. As she had guessed, this place, which somehow seemed so familiar, had become a regular haunt of hers. She hesitated for a second to take in the woman she saw reflected. When she had started on Monday she had come in her best work suit, one with a skirt and material that was black with a pink pinstripe. However, she soon realised that she could be freer in what she could wear, and especially as today was Friday she had gone for something more relaxed. She was keen to bring some Paris dash to the City of London. The outfit was simple: her smooth black leather jacket that reached to her knee, matching pocketless leather trousers and a powder blue ‘v’-necked top that she had been drawn to this morning. The look was completed by the leather briefcase. Monique felt she looked suave enough for business, but sexy enough to show she was far off becoming one of those staid types who still could be found in some law firms.

This was her fifth day working for Maskell HD and any concerns she had had were now very distant. She had initially been surprised to find that much of the work was similar to what she had witnessed in action at that place, what was its name, anyway, that place in West London. The only difference was the sums of money involved. It was complex enough to give her a challenge, but Monique did wonder where those thoughts that she would be out of her depth had ever come from.

Monique took a seat and found herself looking at the reflection of her face. She had no desire to brag, but she was pleased with what she saw. The glass showed a woman in her late twenties, maybe a little younger, with long, dark hair that was smooth and shiny. Her skin was smooth too, just lightly accentuated by, rather than concealed beneath, make-up. It was her eyes which gave her a sense of life and of some kind of serenity; in turn that both communicated the strength and confidence of this woman so reflected. They were deep, appealing eyes that some man could easily lose himself within.

“Could I join you?” A man asked in French.

Snapped from her thoughts Monique looked around sharply. She found a man who looked like he was in his mid-thirties, about six to eight years older than herself, but with a physique, as far as it was visible, that suggested he was as fit as a younger man. His hair was a shade close to Monique’s and his complexion lightly tanned in the way that she found she liked to appear herself.

“Erm, yes, certainly.” Monique shifted slightly to allow him space at the small table. “How did you know I spoke French?”

The man gave a shrug. “I can’t imagine an Englishwoman dressing as sleekly as you.”

“Thank you.” Monique replied quietly hoping the warm sensation at an immediate compliment was not betrayed.

“Well, and the fact that I heard that Maskell HD has employed a new claims counsellor and she was born in France. This place is convenient for their place and there seem to be no other new faces in here. It was not such a long shot.”

“Are you a gambling man?” Monique said, realising that she was slipping into flirtation, but recognising that the positive vibes she had got from this man had encouraged that.

“I guess you could say that, I’m an investment banker with Salois-Eichel Borse; I handle ethical investments; it’s a growth field. I hope you’ve considered it.”

“Ah, art’s more my area for investment. I’m Monique Chase, and yes, I’m the new girl at Maskell HD. And you’re?”

“Tomasz Kulassy, friends call me Tom. My parents were Hungarian, they fled with their respective families during the uprising there in 1956 and later met in Paris at some expatriate Hungarian event; they settled in Metz where I was born and grew up.”

“Well, I’m only half French, my father was English, but I lived in Lyons until a few years ago. London’s an interesting place.”

“Yes, I like it too. I have a place in Docklands and I like getting over to Greenwich.”

“I live in Docklands too, I guess it goes with the territory. I’ve not been down to Greenwich yet. I lived across London until recently.” Monique added, trying to remember the address of her old flat.

“Greenwich is a good place to check out. Maybe we could go for a visit. I could show you some of my favourite places down there.”

Monique realised she had just been asked out. She tested her feelings on that and found it made her feel good. It was almost as if it was a confirmation that she was in the right place and the right job for her. Maybe this Tom would become the lover for afternoon sessions that she had been dreaming about the previous weekend. She took the till receipt from her saucer and scribbled her mobile phone number on it and pushed it over to Tom, enjoying taking a little control in this matter.

“Why don’t we meet for a drink tomorrow night and discuss it?” She added the name of a bar that she had passed a couple of times beneath her number. “Eight o’clock good for you?”

“Certainly. I look forward to it.”

Tom smiled, but in a mature way that Monique liked. In contrast to many men she had encountered he certainly did not come across like a spoiled teenage boy who had realised that there was possibly some sex as a result of this conversation. Monique recognised that there were quite a few points about this Tom that had quickly appealed to her and that gave Monique a slight tingle which she took that as a positive sign. While she enjoyed good, uncomplicated sex, maybe there was room too for something a little more enduring, even with a little romance. Tom seemed as if he had the knowledge and sensitivity to provide that and she knew now, that during this short conversation, she had quickly become keen to put him to the test.

Decisively Monique downed her coffee and collected her briefcase. “À bientôt, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight.” Then, realising that she genuinely did, she added, “I look forward to it, Tom.”

“I do too, Monique.”

Monique gave him a warm smile which she hoped would boost Tom’s expectations. As she reached the door she turned to see him watching her go and that pleased her.

Monique walked into the bar, feeling really good. She had had an afternoon of pampering with her favourite West End beautician and was now dressed simply, but she was sure, very sexily. The warmth of the evening had convinced her to opt for the new leather dress. It was scooped but did not show off any cleavage. The straps were slender but not spaghetti-strings that would have seemed too flirty. The dress reached to mid-way down her thigh, showing off the beauty of her legs. Her calves were kept taut by the strappy high-heeled shoes she wore, again in black leather to match her dress and again sexy without suggesting she was anywhere close to being tarty. Her make-up matched too: light mascara and eye shadow to accentuate rather than conflict with her skin tone; her lips were just the pale rose side of natural. Her dark hair, in this light, almost appearing black, hung simply and sleekly down her back.

Monique noticed Tom almost the moment she stepped into the room, he seemed to be with a younger man, who seemed somehow familiar to Monique but she did not really recognise. Rather than intrude she crossed to the bar and ordered a cool white wine. Before she had found the cash in her velvet clutch bag to pay, Tom was at her side. She smiled at him, recognising a selfish pleasure in that he had left the man so quickly to be at her side. Now his attention was on her she had a real feeling that this evening was the start of something good. For the moment, though, she doused the urges to haul this man straight back to her flat and to straddle and ride him until dawn.