I look at her sword-straight back as I walk into the office - a ramrod in severe serge suit. It is the navy-blue of a perfect secretary. Prim, bespectacled, lips a little pursed in disapproval of the junior typist's thighs fishnetting, lithe and slender, from under the miniscule frill of skirt.
Miss Fanshaw glances at me and nods a polite 'Good Morning, Sir'. She eases her chair back so that it makes no sound and follows me into my office with her shorthand notebook. We have followed this routine daily for years. She was once a junior too, but always in tweed and flat lace-ups. She will sit before me, legs crossed in her draping skirt, pencil poised, eyebrows arched in readiness. My desk lamp glares, highlighting her smooth complexion and chestnut hair woven up into a bun, secured with black velvet.
There it is! The black velvet. The clue, the tiny hint I was planning to search for this morning. I have found it immediately. I knew I would see something, an infinitesimal suggestion of her second life. Rich velvet, a snippet of the midnight sky, twirling snake-like around her hair.
Last night I saw that hair coiling down her back, spirals of luscious chestnut. Last night she wore the deepest of black satin edged with red velvet. Last night she curled her long limbs, normally hidden, now unleashed, unbidden, around the pole.
"Sir? Is the dictation ready, Sir?" her pencil taps her pad.
Last night her long nails scraped down the pole, then her fingers, like ten tendrils, encircled its width. Her knees hugged the unforgiving metal, gave it warmth, made it love her. My pulse beat out of time with the music, out of beat with my mind. My Miss Fanshaw gyrating through her other life.
I look at her heavy shoes, neatly tied. Last night her corset was lashed together with red ribbons, criss-crossing over the swelling flesh that is now concealed beneath her mannish shirt, crisp and severe. There is no softness, no pink, no fire in her eyes now.
"Sir?"
Which is her real life? Ordered and salaried, respectable or dark, sensuous, trashy? Which does she cherish most?
I look deeply into her eyes for the answer, but the light from the lamp glances off her spectacles and blinds me for a moment. I blink. Still I see nothing. I cannot see her eyes.
"Sir, shall I come back later?"
She moves. The light bounces off. I look hard. Her glasses are meticulously clean and all I see is my own reflection, asking me the same question.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.