Our Little Secret (17 page)

‘So now you’re here, you can make yourself useful,’ she says, suddenly grabbing my arms, like we’re about to have a big adventure.

33

Making myself useful, it turns out, means helping Marnie to unpack the crate. The top part is full of clothes, and I stand in her dressing room, which has mirrors all along one side and hanging rails and built-in compartments along the other.

I feel stoned, in a slightly giggly, fun way, and I can’t help dancing a bit along with her as she passes me each tissue-wrapped package from the crate. Soon it feels like Christmas, to be carefully ripping off the tissue paper, until I’m ankle-deep in it, like it’s snow. As she speaks and I hang up the sculptured jackets and smart pencil skirts she passes me, I can’t help marvelling at the quality of each piece. I’ve never been around designer clothes, and yet she has a shopload for her wardrobe. And this is only a fraction of her stuff, she assures me. No wonder she found moving stressful.

It feels thrillingly intimate to be handling her clothes. To be chosen to help out. And it feels great to have a purpose at last. To actually be doing
something
in return for all this money they’re paying me.

‘That I wore to Sydney Opera House at the Millennium,’ she says, sighing as I unfurl a long midnight-blue velvet number on a hanger. ‘I was going to give it away. Auction it. But then I changed my mind, right at the last minute.’ She takes another drag of the joint. If she’s worried about the smell, or Edward catching us out, she seems to have forgotten all about it. Even so, the windows are wide open. ‘It’s been hell moving. But great to clear everything out, you know.’

I nod, but I don’t know. I have the same tiny wardrobe in my bedroom in the flat at home that I’ve had since I was eleven. I cannot imagine owning a walk-in closet, let alone all the clothes to put in it. Clothes that I’ve chosen to wear in places all round the globe.

‘Oh, right,’ she laughs after a while, when the rail is half-full. ‘
That’s
where it all went.’

‘What?’

‘Check out this baby,’ she says, pulling out a black silk corset from the bottom of the crate. She laughs. ‘That was one of my first designs. Still cute, though, huh?’

She puts the strapless corset up against herself and shimmies her hips, so that the beading-loops on the bottom of it jiggle.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I gasp, unable to stop myself running my fingers over the silk panels. ‘I’ve never worn a corset.’

‘What?’ Marnie’s laugh is shrill. ‘Are you
serious
?’

I feel myself blushing.

‘I know people who do,’ I say, thinking of Tiff and that Ann Summers corset she wore to a hen-do, ‘but it’s not the same. We just have tacky underwear shops where I live.’

I don’t tell her about Scott. That he says he likes me best naked.

‘Well, believe me, honey, this stuff isn’t tacky. Between you and me, my intimate collection and lingerie line are what keeps this whole ship afloat.’

This nugget of information surprises me. I thought Edward made a fortune. That they even need to keep anything ‘afloat’ astounds me. But perhaps I haven’t grasped her meaning. What is an intimate collection, I wonder?

‘I had no idea you designed lingerie,’ I tell her, thinking of the picture of the shop on the Internet. So that’s what it sells. Of course someone as brazen and clearly shameless as Marnie would front a high-end business like that. It makes perfect sense.

‘Didn’t you?’ she asks, surprised, but I don’t really know anything about her, except that she’s constantly surprising me. ‘I designed a whole bunch of costumes for Dita. That’s how I got into it.’

‘Dita?’

She explains about the famous burlesque star, and a distant light bulb clicks on. I’ve read about her in
Hello!
magazine. I picture her dark hair and red lips.

‘Here,’ Marnie says, pressing the corset towards me. ‘Try it on. I’m sure it’ll fit. That’s the great thing about these corsets. They’re adjustable.’

‘Oh no, honestly, I couldn’t,’ I gasp, stepping away, laughing.

‘Why not?’ she says, genuinely surprised.

There are so many reasons why not. I’m not going to get half-naked in her bedroom. She’s my boss. But her eyes say differently. She challenges me. Just like she did in the car this morning.

‘Go on, it’ll be fun. In fact, do the whole lot,’ she says, suddenly lighting up and throwing up her hands, as if she’s just had the best idea of her life.

34

The
whole
lot, in Marnie-speak, is the full burlesque get-up. Before I know it, she’s rooting around in the crate and handing me items to lay out on the bed.

I laugh as she produces each new piece, retrieving more and more outrageous items from the depths of the packing crate. Soon there’s crispy tissue paper flying through the air. She’s completely thrilled with the idea of me dressing up, and I can’t help catching her infectious enthusiasm. We’re giggling like kids, but that must be the joint. I’ve never felt this stoned.

The underwear is simply, well . . . astonishing. I take it in armfuls to lay out on the bed. Getting to look at everything, and touch it all, feels so deliciously illicit. It’s like when I was little and I used to watch my mum put on her make-up, copying the way she smudged her lipstick against her lips, feeling the buzz of her dressing up to go out.

Even now, quite often dressing up to go out is still the best bit of the night for me. But this is that feeling times one hundred. It’s the feeling of being in a boutique full of silk and lace, all wrapped up with the knowledge that it’s just me and Marnie in her inner sanctum. It feels so deliciously feminine. I don’t give Edward a second thought.

I gorge my eyes on all the pieces. There’s a headdress with a huge, fluffy black feather on it. The first black silk corset has flesh-coloured lace panels and sparkly fringing, then there’s a red one with black ribbons, a pretty cream-and-pink one and a bawdy purple one. They are each a work of art. There are also long, black silk gloves to match each of them, and seamed silk stockings with lace garter tops.

It’s impossible to choose between them, but I opt for the first one – the black one.

‘So, you have to put it all on in order,’ Marnie instructs matter-of-factly, but there’s a childish sparkle in her eyes. ‘Starting with these.’ She flicks a tiny triangle of silk at me and I realize it’s a thong. She grins. ‘Go on,’ she urges.

I swallow hard. I feel stoned and embarrassed when I realize just how small the thong is and that she’s expecting me to put it on. Right now. In front of her.

‘You don’t think I’ve seen it all before?’ she drawls, with a throaty guffaw.

Of course she’s seen it all before. She’s a model. She designs underwear. Besides, I don’t want her to call me Miss Prim-and-Proper again. I can do this, can’t I? I’m not a prude. If she doesn’t care, then neither should I.

She turns away, to collect the joint from the ashtray on the windowsill, and I strip off out of my new jeans. I fold them quickly and put them on a low velvet chair near the end of the bed. I feel embarrassed by my white knickers and cheap T-shirt bra. I feel like a schoolgirl and I bite my lip.

I turn away, with my back to Marnie – even though she’s staring out into the night – to put on the thong. The contrast between it and my nasty bra couldn’t be greater. Thank God I had a proper wax before I came here.

‘No wonder you looked so goddamned hot in my dress,’ Marnie says from the other side of the room, folding her arms. ‘You, darlin’, have a magnificent ass.’

I quickly glance over my shoulder at my bottom. I’ve never described it as great before, let alone ‘magnificent’, or even an ‘ass’, but I laugh anyway, feeling absurdly flattered.

‘Now then. Next are these,’ Marnie says. She has the joint in her mouth and she’s peering through the trail of smoke into a small wooden box. ‘Take that hideous thing off,’ she instructs, without even looking at me, flapping her hand at my bra. ‘It’s a disgrace to womankind.’

I laugh and dutifully slip off my bra, crossing my hands self-consciously over myself at the front as I do so.

She walks towards me, and now I see that inside the box is a pair of black sequinned nipple-tassels.

‘Oh my God,’ I laugh, peering into the box. ‘Seriously?’

‘Sure,’ she says, with a grin. ‘These are my favourite bit.’

I can’t believe I’m standing practically naked in front of her, but Marnie has made it feel so normal, like such a giggle, I suddenly don’t care. Hell, I want to try on nipple-tassels, and this could be my only chance.

‘Hold this,’ she says, giving me the joint, forcing me to expose one of my breasts as I move my arm. I take a deep drag. I’m conscious that I’m now bare in front of her, but she doesn’t react.
This is cool
, I think.
She does this all the time. Don’t be a prude.
I let my other arm fall to my side, my chest completely exposed now.

‘So. You have to put the glue on,’ she says, leaning down. She takes a small plastic tube from the box and unscrews the lid. Her face is close to my breast. I can feel myself shaking. She puts the tiny nozzle of glue against my nipple and a drop of cold liquid comes out. My nipples immediately stiffen.

I look down at them and at her.

‘Sorry,’ she smiles, raising her eyebrow, ‘it’s cold, right?’

She takes the nipple-tassel out of the box and carefully sticks it over my flesh. It’s weird, but I like it. The heel of her hand resting against my breast feels so intimate. I’ve never been touched there before by a woman. I start to tremble in the cold draught from the window. My skin goosebumps all over.

I watch as she does the other breast, concentrating hard, but now I feel something else as she touches me. It’s so intimate. So strange to be so close to her, but I can’t help feeling excited, too. The fluttery, shaking feeling increases.

She cups her hands under my breasts and stands back to survey her handywork, checking the nipple-tassels are in line.

‘Aren’t you darling,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘Just perfect.’

I flush at her compliment. I felt cold before from the draught from the window, but just standing here in my thong and two nipple-tassels, a wave of heat washes over me. I smile at her and raise my eyebrows, and then look down at myself with an excited grin. I want to wiggle, but she can tell this.

‘No, no, don’t move,’ she cautions. ‘Not until you’ve dried.’

She takes the joint from me and parades to the other side of the room, dancing a bit to the music. I turn round to face the bed. I guess the corset is next. I can feel my legs trembling.

I pick it up and, having ditched the joint, Marnie is back.

‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘Put it over your front. I’ll lace you up at the back, but when you take it off, you undo the front, see?’

I nod, examining the intricate hooks. Will I be taking it off? I’m more interested in how you put such a boned contraption on.

I feel her close to my back, and the strings wrench me in and I yelp and laugh. I feel like Scarlett O’Hara, but a naughty version. I put my hands on my tiny waist. It feels great to be so cinched in. It feels nice to know the nipple-tassels are below. I see our reflection in the mirror, Marnie at my back bending over. I see the curve of her bum beneath the gown.

‘Edward loves all this,’ Marnie says, in a confidential tone. Her face is near my hair now. I feel the silk of her robe on the top of my arm. ‘He’s a sucker for a girl all dressed up.’

There’s an edge in her voice that I can’t place. Does she know about last night? Is she talking about me? Or have there been other girls?

But at that moment she spins me round and her face is so open and sweet, I dismiss the thought immediately. I can’t think about Edward. Not now. Not after last night. Not when this is happening, right here and right now. She pushes my hair back away over my shoulders. It’s such a motherly, proprietorial gesture. She’s loving this.

She licks her bottom lip.

‘You look fabulous. But hitch up a bit,’ she says, still surveying me with a professional eye.

She grabs the soft flesh of my breast and pulls it up inside the corset, careful not to dislodge the tassels. I feel my crotch flicker and twitch. My breath catches. Her hand is warm.

‘Wow,’ I joke, covering it up by looking down at my impressive cleavage. ‘Look at that.’

‘Look at that,’ she agrees, impressed. She squeezes the peachy tops of my breasts and makes a jokey, lewd guffaw, but her eyes are somehow serious as they meet mine. Then she strokes her hands over the curve of my waist. ‘How do you feel?’

Her eyes are narrowed now.

‘I feel . . . I don’t know. It’s so sensual and sexy,’ I confess.

She stares at me again, appraising me. I feel so flattered that she likes what she sees. I wish now I had make-up on, and heels and perfume. I wish I could be even better.

‘Put the stockings on,’ she says, flicking her eyes to the bed. ‘Roll them carefully, or they’ll ladder.’

I like the way she gives me the instruction – like she’s this experienced big sister or something. I suddenly want to learn everything I can from her. I want to shine for her.

I turn and put on the exquisite stockings, carefully rolling them up one at a time, but I’m so aware of Marnie. I glance at her on the other side of the room. She’s studying an iPad. What’s she doing? She’s not going to take photos, is she?

In a moment she’s back, then she kneels down on the carpet. Her face is just inches from my barely covered vulva, but she’s concentrating solely on fixing my stocking tops with the suspenders. Even so, I can feel the heat of her breath as she fiddles with the attachments, her warm hand brushing my inner thigh.

The quivering feeling inside me only grows. I guess this kind of get-up is designed to make you feel sensual, but I’m dismayed by how horny I feel. Maybe it’s just the music and the joint.

Then, as she’s fixing the back stocking, she puts her hand between my leg to straighten the stocking at the front. The side of her hand accidentally slides against the silk of the thong. Everything beneath twitches. I feel an almost orgasmic flush rush through my abdomen.