Past Present by Secret Narrative Page B

glossy blue-black hair and tiny features. She looks stunning. The contrast between my fair features and her dark will be a pretty detail to share in my journal.
    “How can I help you madam?” A stunning smile reaches her eyes, disarming me.
    “I’d like a cream basque, matching panties and natural coloured stockings with a deep cream lace top,” I reel off. “Rather than hooks, I’d like a basque which ties with laces along the back. Will you help me, please? I’d like to try everything on.”
    “Certainly, madam. Our cream collection is displayed on the far wall,” she says, leading the way. Together, we pick out a number of items. Some heavily corseted, some with simple bones, some without structure.
    “I’ll show you to the changing room and bring the selection along to you. I’ll help when you’re ready. Through here.” She opens a damask curtain, and I walk through, my head already occupying Matthew’s world, my body ready to do his bidding, branded in my mind from the moment I read the task. A rush of heat warms my skin, followed instantly by a flurry of goosebumps, raising the surface, causing a slight shiver.
    “Are you cold, madam? The temperature can be adjusted if you wish.”
    “No. No, thank you,” I say. “Someone just walked over my grave.” And her shiver matches mine.
    “Excuse me, I’ll go and fetch the garments we picked out,” she says, smoothing her expression, along with her skirt.
    “Thank you.” I stow my things on a pretty chair, which matches the curtains.
    A row of hooks holds a range of kimonos, supplied for customers’ modesty and I look along the rainbow of colours, finally pausing at mandarin. It reminds me of a picture I inherited from my parents. Although sometimes the image is painful, it’s comforting too. It has just been rehung after being in storage and it brings them closer to me again. I feel their presence at Falconworth, especially daddy. I know he’d disapprove of me and Matthew, just as Julie and Bob do. Still, I reassure myself with the thought that Julie doesn’t know everything about Matthew. Who knows everything about anyone? I push the unwelcome thoughts aside and wrap the rich silk around me. The burst of orange reflected so bright it almost hurts my eyes, radiating warmth and depth, rich, vibrant and decadent. Just like autumn.
    Orange, mandarin, I wonder if it clashes with my Chanel red lips and nails, but decide it doesn’t matter, certain shades of orange, like terracotta, are tonal, more subtle than red. Sienna, baked clay, emits earthy, soothing warmth, and I wonder whether to try a different shade of lipstick. The fruity hue of the loose fitting robe suits my fair colouring and lights my complexion. I imagine an artist whirling his brush in sunshine yellow, dipping the tip into coral, creating whorls on his palette of the colour I now wear. I resolve to investigate the complementary colours sometime, expand my wardrobe to match the seasons. I once read that orange combines the energy of red and the happiness of yellow. The kimonos jostle, each vibrant silk holds its own, and yet hanging together, they fit somehow as if they belong on the same rail, should always be there. I thought that by removing one and putting it on, there would be a vacant space, but the others seem to have moved closer together to make up for the loss. The warm silk embraces my bare skin, I think about Matthew’s task, burning a hole in my handbag, I feel my heat shimmering, rising in a haze as if from melting tarmac on a blistering day. I move my fingers to the source of combustion at my core and work towards a swift conclusion.
    Arriving home, I add the events of the day to my journal. I’m hungry, and I need coffee. In our small, private kitchen, I filter my customary strength five choclately Italian, add a splash of skimmed milk, fetch chocolate biscuits and take the tray into the snug. Deciding to dash off a quick text to Julie, I send the message before