Harriet's Arrangement

Tom's London

Harriet's dreams that night were fraught with confused visions of Malcolm and Kieran and punishments and humiliation. She was bound and naked: Malcolm, fiercer than he ever was in real life, held whips and canes over her, beating her relentlessly, roaring, with eyes that blazed like the devil. And Kieran stood by and watched, helpless, reaching out, and she kept trying to speak and she couldn't, and she tried to scream and she couldn't... and she woke, sweating and crying, the bedsheets wound tightly around her.

Panting, she reached across to turn on the light and slowly pulled herself up, wincing at the very real bruises on her bottom and thighs. It was the first time she had had what she termed a nightmare about Malcolm. All the other dreams had been far more confusing, featuring unwanted images that painted him in a far more attractive light that she wanted to see him in, soft and caring – even when he hit her. But Kieran had never appeared in the dreams before. She knew this was directly related to Malcolm's new threat of sharing her punishments with Kieran – and also because she knew yesterday had been the first day she had had a taste of what Malcolm would be like if she angered him.

She looked at the clock. Only 11pm: she couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour. She looked at the notebook on the side of her bed and felt a twinge of sadness. She had written very little since she had started seeing Malcolm. Afraid to write down anything that might reveal her own feelings to herself, she had avoided it, and had been unable to find inspiration to explore any of the ideas she'd begun to play with when she'd started at C&C.

Sighing, she reached instead for the novel that sat next to the notebook and flicked it open to where she'd left off the previous day. Even if she couldn't find the words to create a different world, at least she could get lost in those of other writers.

***

"Hey, champ, what's up?" Tom's cheery question roused her from thought as she found herself at the front of the coffee queue. He called behind him to his colleague to make her coffee, and as he turned back and her eyes met his she saw his gaze soften in concern. "Hey," he said again, "Seriously, you look awful. You ok?"

She tried to form words and struggled. "Work... just a... I'm just having a bit of a shitty time with something," she said, feeling herself blush at the clumsy explanation, "Sorry."

"Not a sorry thing," he said, shaking his head, "I tell you what. What are you doing tonight?"

She gave him a funny look. "No plans..." she said slowly, "Why?"

"You look like you could use some serious cheering up," he said, handing her the coffee his colleague had passed him, "I'm taking you out."

She let out a shocked little laugh, and found that, actually, she really liked the sound of that. "Oh gosh, Tom... you don't have to do that," she said, tapping her card to pay for the coffee.

"But I want to. Meet you here at 7?"

He wasn't really giving her the opportunity to refuse, and if she was honest, she didn't mind one bit. "That sounds really great," she said, gratefully, "I could do with a change of scene. Thank you."

"Wear something nice," he said, winking, "I'll see you after work."

She couldn't help grinning at him as she left, and found a little buoyancy in her step as she continued her walk to the office. She wasn't entirely sure if this counted as a date, but whatever it was, she was looking forward to it enormously.

The day passed without incident and after changing her outfit three times (and finally settling on a simple, classy, black and white knee-length dress and a pair of low heels that she knew she could spend an evening in), she waited a little nervously – although a nice kind of nervous, she noted – outside the coffee shop. Tom appeared round the corner only a minute or two after she arrived, and she raised a hand in greeting.