His House of Submission Read Free Page A

…’
    â€˜In what universe isn’t this gross misconduct?’ He stepped into the room, unfolding his arm grandly to usher Will through the door. ‘Not ours, at least. Goodbye. I’ll forward any holiday entitlement you had outstanding on to you.’
    â€˜Mr Jay, please … four years of good service.’
    â€˜Ruined in the space of one night.’ Jay shook his head. ‘Like a film script, isn’t it?’ There was a pause. ‘I can’t help noticing that you’re still here.’
    Will looked at me, as if expecting me to leap to his passionate defence. Seeing this wasn’t about to happen, he made as dignified an exit as he could muster.
    I watched the knots between his shoulder blades, the buzz-cut V at his nape, retreat through the door.
    I looked up, expecting my neck to be next on the block.
    I ought to say something but I couldn’t think what so I waited, while tension and mortification played ping-pong in my emotional centre.
    He didn’t say anything either, which was odd. He just looked at me, not angrily or severely, just sort of … pensively. His eyes were wintry and sombre, but not hard.
    His abstraction was only broken when I cleared my throat and swallowed, looking desperately around me for any magical escape route that might present itself.
    â€˜Sit down,’ he said.
    I was already sitting down, but I gathered from the direction of his waving hand that I was to go and sit on the side of the bed.
    There were armchairs in the room, but these wouldn’t do, it seemed.
    â€˜Are you going to sack me too?’ I asked, the words coming out of my cotton-wool mouth in a thick wad.
    He made no reply but walked over to the chest and reached inside.
    I’d lost track of my heart. It had giddied up and up and now it was steeplechasing fit to collapse. What on earth did he have in mind?
    He drew out one of the many long, thin boxes and came to stand over me, a looming presence, shadowing me. I felt very small and very vulnerable and yet a part of me was revelling in my disgrace, making sure it recalled all the details to be mulled over at leisure later.
    He took the lid off the box and withdrew the contents – a wide strap of supple leather, with stiffer, darker, embossed leather at one end and a metal chain link intended for hanging it on a hook.
    â€˜Do you know what this is?’ He presented it across his two palms where it lay, dormant but no less deadly, its antique tang gathering in my senses and whipping them up. ‘Take it. Hold it.’
    Uncertainly, I plucked the thing from him and read the gilt lettering on the leather handle. ‘Holborn Barbering Supplies’. The leather was cold and smooth and cruelly sensual to the touch.
    â€˜Well?’ Jay’s voice was soft but commanding.
    â€˜It’s a razor strop. Antique.’
    â€˜Can you date it?’
    â€˜Not precisely. Mid-Victorian, perhaps.’
    â€˜It’s not modern.’
    â€˜No, it’s too heavy to be modern.’
    â€˜That’s right. You know about these things, don’t you, Sarah?’
    I looked up sharply at his use of my given name, which was spoken in a peculiarly intimate tone, with a whisper of caress behind it.
    â€˜I … you hired me, after all.’
    â€˜Yes, I did. I hired you.’
    â€˜Do I still …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.
    â€˜Have a job here?’ He stepped back and looked up at the ceiling, seeking advice in its elaborate cornicing and plaster rose. ‘Yes, I think you do.’
    I waited a moment for my breathing to regulate then said, ‘Thank you.’
    The silence between us was broken by the sound of bags being thrown heavily down the stairs.
    â€˜Excuse me one moment,’ he said, leaving the room, presumably to direct the departure of Will. I wondered if Jasper Jay directed everything in his life like this, getting the details right, making art of the