Fetish Read Free

and send it over?”
    Twenty-eight minutes later a taxi pulled up and Makedde let herself in with the extra key. The accommodation was modest—typical for travelling models—a studio flat with twin beds and a tiny kichen and bathroom. Although the bed looked short enough for her feet to hang off the edge, she savoured the thought of getting horizontal on it. Catherine had only been living in the furnished flat for a month, but Mak noticed that she had already added her special touch to the place. The sparse decor had been livened up with an assortment of chic fashion magazine cut-outs—ads for Gucci,Chanel, Calvin Klein and Aussie designers Morrissey and Lisa Ho coated the walls in a collage of dizzying couture. She could just imagine the landlord’s expression at seeing the miles of sticky tape holding the pictures in place.
    Followed by one hundred mascara-enhanced vacant stares, Makedde took in the small flat—the cramped bathroom, the half kitchen with its minibar-sized fridge, and the large window which opened onto a stunning view of southern Bondi Beach. Across from the window, the two single beds were made with mismatched covers, each with its own uncomfortably thin looking pillow. A pint-sized, seventies-style chest of drawers separated the beds, and Makedde saw a notepad resting on it, beside the phone. She picked it up and read the hastily scrawled message.
    JT Terrigal
    Beach res
    16
    14
    Makedde couldn’t make much of the note. She had been expecting some hurried excuse for Catherine’s absence, but the message did not appear addressed to her, or anyone else for that matter. Catherine mentioned that she might have a date for the weekend, but she refused to say with whom. Wasthe note related to that? The writing looked rushed. Perhaps Catherine had to leave at the last minute?
    Puzzled and disappointed, Makedde embarked on a more thorough inspection of the flat. The fridge door, which would have been a natural choice, was littered with takeaway food menus, but no notes. The answering machine was flashing its red “messages” light. Makedde pressed the play button. The first two messages were dial tones, then, “Catherine, it’s Skye from Book. Call me.” There were a few clicks and pauses, but the next message was her own voice, “Hey, Cat, I just got in. I’m about to jump in a taxi…”
    She suspected that sometime during the day she would receive an excited and apologetic phone call from Cat, describing how her secret Romeo had swept her off her feet and whisked her away for a scandalous sojourn.
    So much for the welcome wagon.
    Makedde decided to make herself at home, and the first thing on her list was that long awaited hot shower. Unfortunately, the bathroom proved to be even more cramped than it looked. It was either an ill-conceived design in minimal space, or an illegal conversion from a closet; something she had seen before in other models’ flats. She had to stand on the toilet seat to get to the shower/bathtub, because the sink hung over the seat, and there was no space to move in between. After kneeling on the toilet seat tobrush her teeth, she shuffled across and climbed into the tub.
    Mak showered under a refreshing stream of hot water, gratefully soaping away the stickiness of travel. She towelled off and, still warm, crawled into bed wearing a T-shirt and pair of boxers which had retained her affections long after their original owner. She had not slept well in many months, and hadn’t managed to sleep at all on the flight. She was too tired to even think about staying awake to adjust her circadian rhythms. Instead, she set the alarm for 5.30 in the afternoon so she could call Book agency for the following day’s photo session details, and check for any messages Catherine might have left. Sleep came swiftly, but her rest was haunted by disturbing dreams.
    Catherine is reaching out…
    Catherine is stretching through layers of dreamscape, terror shattering her beautiful features.