"So what do you think, Miss Verseine?" asked Keswick.
Liberty
fidgeted in her chair, over-awed by the presence of the man behind the huge
mahogany desk. "Mr Keswick, I find
it hard to believe I'm qualified for the job."
Keswick
frowned; a cleft like a knife-cut formed between his steel-grey eyebrows. "And yet you applied. Why?"
Liberty
glanced again at her copy of her application letter to remind herself what
she'd written.
"Well,
a position in an innovative sculpture and performance art project looked a real
challenge," she said. But then she
stopped, reading on to where she'd waffled on about a string of non-existent
degrees and accomplishments.
Something
about Keswick inspired honesty. With the
studied sparseness of the office, the precision of his stubble of grey hair,
the sharp creases of his white linen suit, lies seemed out of place, like an
untidy stain.
Liberty
crumpled the letter, nervously flicked back her long auburn hair. "Oh, desperation," she said. "The fact is, I
failed my Fine Arts course. Nor do I
speak Italian. Do you know how many
interviews I've been to?" She
indicated her jeans, battered leather jacket and Picasso T-shirt. "I don't even bother dressing up for
them."
And
yet Keswick smiled, his tanned face creasing in fatherly wrinkles. "I like the truth," he said. He stood and paced to the window to look at
the London landscape far below.
"You know, Liberty - if I may call you that - that
my art made me rich. But that didn't
happen by following the rules. I want
people around me who feel the same, who are prepared to take risks to get where
they want."
"Besides."
He looked at Liberty searchingly.
"I have a weakness for slim attractive women with unconventional
dress sense. Do you still want the
job?"
"Why,
certainly," Liberty said.
"Then
it's settled," he said.
"According to the terms set down in my letter. Full board and lodging for the duration of
the project. You may resign at any time,
as long as I have your resignation in writing.
Acceptable?"
"Fine."
He
opened a desk drawer took out two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured, and passed one to Liberty. "A drink will seal the bargain."
She
sipped the bitter wine.
"Take
life with vigour," Keswick laughed, and drained his glass. "Go on!"
Liberty
smiled and, copying him, quaffed her own drink.
"Thank you, Mr Keswick. When
do I start?"
"Straight
away, if you wish," Keswick said.
"Then
I ..." Liberty reached out to replace her glass on the desk, but somehow
the edge remained just beyond the reach of her fingers. "I'm sorry," she said shakily. "I skipped lunch ... feel faint
..."
Keswick
stood over her, looking unconcerned. His
voice came distantly to Liberty.
"No, you're not fainting; you're just going to have a nice sleep
before you start work."
Liberty
dropped the glass to the carpet; Keswick and his desk dimmed and spun. Then, darkness.
Silence.
When Liberty woke, she was lying on a couch
near the window in a white room; sunlight filtered through the slats of a
closed blind. Under her, a
marshmallow-soft down mattress; over her, a cool white sheet.
She
always slept naked, and yet something was very strange and wrong.
She
raised her right hand, to find it embedded to the wrist in a rigid glove of
thick clear plastic. Her shocked gaze
went to her elbow; above and below it, her arm was encircled by rings of the
same material. She brought out her left
arm, and found it the same. When she
prodded at the rings with her stiff encased fingers, she found they pulled at
the flesh - they had, it seemed, been fitted on in two halves and then stuck to
her skin with something like superglue.
Her
scalp felt strange, and she found her hair had been cropped short and a similar
ring glued around her head above her eyebrows.
With
growing flood of panic, she pushed back the sheet and looked down. "Oh, my God," she said. Her trim taut body was covered with bits of
the same stuff. At her shoulders arcs of
it projected like epaulets. A half-cup
(notched to cradle each nipple) was glued under each breast, pushing it up into
a rounded globe. A small transparent
corset pinched in her waist to an hourglass shape. Her armpits and pubic area had been shaved.
Her
legs were ringed in the same way, upper thigh, knee and ankle, and when she
finally sat up and swung them off the mattress to try to stand, she found she
couldn't. On each foot was a plastic
hemisphere about 18 inches in diameter, the sole glued to the flat side. The rounded undersides skittered on the
polished floor, and they were impossible to balance on.
She
was panting in terror now. Falling back
to the bed, she looked wildly around the room.
The shock of her personal inspection had blinded her to the place. She took in the Japanese prints on the walls,
the futons, low tables, and finally, the chair in the corner where Keswick sat
watching her.
"Good
morning," he said quietly, relaxing in kaftan on a whitewood
armchair. Cups and a coffee percolator
stood on a table next to him.
"What
is all this stuff?" Liberty demanded, trying to pull the sheet back over her.
"I
must apologize for mistreating you. I'm
especially sorry about your hair.
Naturally, it will regrow eventually."
Liberty
began to cry. "What do you
want?" she wailed. "Why have
you put all this on me?"
Keswick
stood up and crossed the room to her, his sandalled
feet scarcely making a sound on the ceramic-tiled floor. He carried a cup of coffee.
"Here,"
he said. "Drinking this will put
you in a better mood. If you can't hold
it properly, I'll help you."
Liberty
was thirsty, and despite her fear and uncertainty about Keswick, she accepted
his help as he held the cup to her lips.
The coffee was dark, sweet, and high quality.
"That's
better," Keswick said. "Now,
breakfast perhaps? I have fresh figs,
French bread, brioche, whatever you want."
She
was hungry too. "Yes," she
said; despite her fear she was strangely disarmed by his gentle manner. "Please, Mr Keswick, tell me! What do you want from me? Is it a ransom? You know I'm just a failed art student; my
parents aren't rich, but they could make it worth your while if you let me
go."
Keswick
smiled. That mass of disarming wrinkles
again. "You know I'm an artist,
Liberty."
Liberty
shrank away from him. "Artists
don't kidnap women and glue plastic on them," she said, starting to cry
again.
"Not
in general, I admit," Keswick said, standing and walking to the
window. "The truth is, I have many
specialisms: sculpture, electronics, medicine. I need your looks, your reactions, for a very
unusual project..."
"No,
please, let me go," she sobbed.
"Certainly,"
he said. "As we agreed, you can
resign immediately you notify me in writing."
"You
bastard," Liberty grated, looking at her useless hands.
"Oh,
we can get along better than that, I'm sure," he said. "Treat yourself as my honoured
guest. Good food, fine view, pleasant
surroundings. Look!"
He
pulled on a tasselled cord and raised the blind to reveal a panoramic view down
over the city of London. "Later
today, Liberty, you can come to my party, meet all the best people. Would you like that?"
Liberty
sniffed back tears, feeling a shred of hope.
There would be people there, perhaps someone who could help her. Until then, she could endure whatever Keswick
wanted.
She
nodded. "Yes."
Keswick
smiled. "Then it's agreed. Now you must eat, I insist, and meet me
afterwards to get ready. Aiko!"
A
maid in Japanese costume entered the room with a tray of fruit and bread. She fed Liberty, then brought in a bathrobe
and wheelchair and took her to the lavatory.
Afterward, she wheeled her back, not into the room where she had woken
but along a corridor and through a set of double doors.