Destined to Feel (10 page)

‘Our aim is not to harm you, Dr Blake, we simply need to borrow your body and mind for a few days. Then you shall be free to leave, intact. Some of your options are, of course, more open to negotiation than others. This will become obvious to you as you digest the offer on hand.

Bonne nuit
.’

With that, she politely and elegantly extricates herself from the table with a level of sophistication that certainly doesn’t come naturally to my casual Australian nature, and disappears through a discreet door at the opposite end of the room from the one through which I arrived. I am left sitting in silence with Lou and Fred waiting in the background. It is difficult for me to absorb everything that has happened to me in the last 24 hours and I figure the best place to do that is to be alone in my own room minus the presence of these beefy butlers.

I push away from the table and stand up. Fred darts forward and hastily gathers up the documents from their position on the dining room table and places them into a file with my name on it. I am escorted back through the arched doorway of the entrance and, eventually, via the extraordinarily long corridor, back to my room. The file is placed on the antique desk in the corner of the room and the desk lamp is switched on…presumably for my reading pleasure, I think sarcastically. They both nod curtly as they leave and I hear my bedroom door being locked.

And here I am, left alone again, wondering what Jeremy has managed to place me in the middle of this time.

I notice that my suitcase has appeared at the foot of the bed and relief washes over my entire body. This one act of seeing my own belongings in this austere environment is enough to ensure I am once again overcome with emotion. But I gather myself together and try to convince my heart and mind to remain aloof and professional. I desperately miss Elizabeth and Jordan, more than I ever have in my life. I wish I had my phone and the most recent photo they sent through. They say you don’t appreciate something until it’s gone. I feel as if they have been torn away from their mother’s embrace and I have stupidly and naively allowed this to happen. Would other mothers have made the decisions I have made the past couple of months? Quite possibly not, I have to concede.

It is hard enough to come to terms with myself, let alone worry about others’ opinions of my actions, but what if something had happened to me and they became motherless? I can’t bear to linger on this thought as it threatens to break my heart violently in two. A more rational part of my brain wonders whether Robert and I have updated our wills. I must make this a priority when I return…if I return in one piece. Oh god, how the hell did I end up here? This feels so very different from my week away with Jeremy. Then, the excitement and the continual adrenaline rush of not knowing what was coming next seemed to keep my mind from the emotional turmoil I was in and, of course, it was Jeremy who was in the driver’s seat, making all the decisions, taking control. I knew deep down I could trust him with my life, knowing he would ensure I was reunited with my children, my world. But now, who do I trust in this environment? What hasn’t Jeremy told me? I don’t even know exactly who knows I am missing — maybe Jeremy is keeping that information to himself as well…

I abruptly halt that train of thought, knowing it is getting me nowhere and has the potential to unravel me entirely. Professional and businesslike is my new mantra. No time for threatening emotions. You have survived exceptionally well in the business world before, Alexa, I say firmly to myself, and that is all this needs to be. If you play your cards right, you’ll be out of here in a few days time, just as Madame said. Hopefully…if you can trust her…

I scrunch my fists into a tight ball in an attempt to marshal my strength of mind before stripping myself out of this ludicrous dress. I open my suitcase and staring up at me is my newly acquired very slinky negligee, which was reserved especially for meeting Jeremy. Now I wish I still had my other bag with my British Airways pyjamas! I decide to opt for the only truly casual clothes I have packed and slop on my gym pants, comfy bra and a T-shirt. If Madame Goldy wants to negotiate, then that is exactly what we will do. I determinedly settle myself at the small desk, not knowing what I will find inside the dossier labelled: ‘Dr Alexandra Blake — Private

& Confidential’.

To say that I’m shocked is an understatement. It appears that Jeremy has indeed presented to the International Scientific Advisory Board on depression, bipolar disorder and related conditions.

In doing so, he has
referenced results on a live pre-menopausal, Anglo-Saxon female with type
AB blood grouping
…yes, that would be me, how convenient.
The results identified the missing
element in the hormonal comparisons of realising natural serotonin without the harsh side
effects of existing drugs and returning all chemical balance to the brain to normal ranges
within three to five days.

I’m pleased he thinks I have ‘returned to normal’ because I certainly feel anything but normal given I’ve been experiencing ‘episodes’ ever since then, which he knows nothing about because he has been too busy spouting forth about his results instead of tapping back into his clinical research. Shit, what has he done? Why, Jeremy? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do this…you didn’t mention a word about it during our recent chats. Why are you still keeping me in the dark? There is so much more I need to talk to you about.

Today we aim to submit a comprehensive funding proposal to approve the testing of up to
100 females of AB blood type. Anglo-Saxon and pre-menopausal are prerequisites for testing
of these subjects in clinical environments; half will have been previously diagnosed
medically with some form of relational depression and the other half will never have
experienced diagnosed depression. They will undergo a series of tests and be administered
drugs in relation to placebo…

Why the hell hasn’t he mentioned this to me? Where is he conducting these tests? How will he secure these women? Is he going to subject these women to the same experience as he did me? Did it all mean nothing to him? I feel blood pounding through my veins in fury as I continue to read through these documents. Please don’t let Madame Goldy be correct. How the hell could he have neglected to tell me anything about this? Did he give me other drugs during our time together, drugs I didn’t know about? Heaven knows he could have, and it may more appropriately explain these damn ‘episodes’. He said he gave me a sedative after my experience and I woke up somewhere he called Avalon, dazed and confused for what felt like days.

Anything could have happened and I wouldn’t be any the wiser. Then there was the drip, the need for a catheter, and blacking out again. Oh, dear god, could I have been that naive? Did I trust him so implicitly that I didn’t even think to ask these sorts of questions? With this realisation, my stomach feels like it is doing a complete three-sixty degrees in my belly and I lurch up from the desk and stumble into the bathroom, instantly heaving up the contents of my dinner. Did I concede that much of myself to him? I know the answer to the question. Of course I did. I handed everything over to him that weekend.

My sight. My body. My mind.

I was totally at his mercy, before allowing myself to be ensconced in the supposed warmth of his care — now more obviously his absolute dominance over me. A shiver thunders down my spine as an entirely new version of our time together flashes before my eyes and an ice-cold feeling settles in my bones. I tightly grip the basin as I consider a completely different perspective on what was not so obvious to me before. His absolute control over every detail, every interaction. The ever-present ominous undercurrent of his tone. His absolute refusal to negotiate any of the predetermined conditions of our weekend together. No sight. No questions.

Holy fuck! How could I have been so blind? What a stupid statement. Of course I was blind. He ensured I was blind — and bound when necessary — for the entire 48 hours, which was all centred on the experiment, and it enabled him to do whatever he chose to do.

And now, for the first time, in this chateau, I am questioning exactly what that was. Was I so caught up in the sheer sexuality of the experience that I intellectually overlooked everything else? What an easy target I would have been for the oh-so-suave and sophisticated Dr Quinn. My passionless marriage; our shared sexual past; his connection to my body being like nothing I’ve ever experienced with anyone else; his remote control button facilitating my orgasms. What hope did I have? How could he lose?

I have a sudden flashback to just before we jumped out of the plane when he told me I was in perfect health. I questioned how he would know such information as we went hurtling out the plane. He’d said he needed to make sure there was enough adrenaline pumping through my veins to get through the evening — this all occurred before we had even discussed my involvement, let alone me agreeing. Damn him. Had he been researching me long before our weekend away?

Obviously he had, because he knew everything about my medical history. Would it have honestly made any difference whether I had agreed to the experiment or not? Maybe not, maybe my whole decision-making process was inconsequential and I played right into his hands regardless!

Flashes of the hot chocolates flitter through my mind; anything could have been in them. His casual conversation regarding his knowledge of my rare AB blood, as he was so confidently extracting his fourth instalment from my veins. As if he owned me! He never told me he was going to do that and I didn’t even know about the first three times. Would he have told me? And why subject me to that dreadful catheter and drip when he has always known how much I hate that stuff? Was that really necessary or was there so much more at play?

The memory of his words and my version of events somersaults in my mind as my heart feels battered and bruised by these entirely new insights. It is as if I have been shining the narrow beam of the flashlight only on the components of our time together that I wanted to see, rather than turning the room light on to see the entire scene. Am I that gullible, that naive? I have always been an easy target for the great Dr Quinn and it appears nothing has changed. I am still a medical experiment to him, a means to an end in his all-encompassing search for a cure. He has chosen to present his results professionally before I am privy to them myself — and they are about me! Once again, I’m a mere pawn in the masterful game of his life and he has deliberately chosen to keep me in the dark.

My body trembles with betrayal and rage. How could he have put me in this situation if he honestly loved me? Did he ever love me? His desperation and drive for a cure has catapulted me into danger and into taking more personal risks than in my worst nightmares. He doesn’t care about me, about my children. I could never contemplate doing what he has done to a person that I love. And he has carefully and callously manoeuvred me into this point of no return. On the flight over I was like an excitable young puppy looking forward to the next instalment of Jeremy-esque experimentation on my body and my mind. Which is actually really bizarre when I think about it in this context. He was my world and I would have done anything for him, including leaving my kids for almost two weeks to eagerly take part in whatever was on offer.

What a bloody idiot I am. No sex is worth this risk, damn it, and now I’ve been abducted in a bloody suitcase because of him and his silence. Well, fuck him! I’m so angry at him and so very disappointed with myself. I swipe at the stinging hot tears sliding down my face; I can’t deal with any more emotion.

I quickly brush my teeth to remove the awful taste in my mouth and collapse on the bed, overwhelmed by fatigue and complete exhaustion. I’m unconscious in seconds, my sleep too heavy and absolute to allow any dreams to seep through.

Jeremy

I toss and turn during the night, completely disturbed by the dreams and imagery I have in my head about Alexa’s plight. At some stage, I decide it’s useless attempting any more sleep given the tense state I’m in, and spend a few hours poring over the information Moira has collated in the personal dossiers on each of the forum members. I obviously can’t do this when Sam’s around, as he would be shocked to think I might even consider he would ever intentionally harm Alexa. I know he loves her like a daughter.

I sense that I’m missing something but I just can’t put my finger on it. I send a quick message back to Moira asking if she can access the mobile phone records of each forum member from the time of my trip to Sydney to see if that provides any leads before jumping into the shower to freshen up. It’s a long shot and possibly illegal, depending on who is paying the bills, but I can’t afford to leave any stone unturned. I quickly get dressed and pack up my belongings, desperate to be on the move. Just as I’m about to call Moira for a more thorough update, Sam knocks on the door.

‘Morning Jeremy, did you sleep —’ He doesn’t bother continuing with pleasantries, he can sense my anxiety.

‘What’s the update, Sam? I was just calling Moira.’

‘They’ve tracked Alexandra to Slovenia.’

‘Slovenia? What the hell would they take her there for? I only know of two pharmaceutical companies based there. Zealex, which is only small and I doubt would be involved but you never know, I suppose, and I think Xsade has only a small office, not a large factory or other concern there, but I could be wrong. This is good, Sam. At least now we have something more concrete to work on.’

‘Maybe it’s best if you read this for yourself, it just came through.’ Sam hands me a file and my eyes scan its contents rapidly.

‘So, they believe she is being kept somewhere near Kranj and has been stationary for the past few hours. Right, we need to get going, Sam, we can’t waste another second. When’s our flight?’

‘Martin’s organised the team to assemble in Munich as it’s more accessible for everyone to fly to, particularly from the States. We’ll have a room set up at the airport Hilton and will coordinate our plan from there.’ I grab the map that has been included in the file.