My Muse and Me

'Discipline,' I said. 'I think that's what it's going to have to come down to.'

My Muse looked surprised. 'Oh? You want me to put you across my knee?'

'Good heavens, no,' I said. 'I've never see the attraction of all that hot bottom stuff.'

'No,' she said. 'That's what I thought. Mind you, Lawrence, the chap for whom I used to muse before I came to you, he enjoyed a good spanking. Liked to dress up for it. Put on a pair of his wife's knickers. And some pink ankle socks. After a good spanking, he'd write pages and pages of the most awful drivel. Fortunately most of it got edited out before it saw publication.'

I just nodded.

'So,' she said, 'what sort of discipline were you thinking of?'

'I think that I just need to knuckle down and get some words on the page. Something that I can push around. Rearrange. Polish. You know.'

'So what do you want me to do?'

'I need a hook. A character perhaps. Something that I can hang a story around.'

'Well, you already have a theme,' Muse said. 'You have smut.'

'Yes, I know. But I'm having difficulty coming up with something suitably smutty. I think that it must be my age. Everything seems ... well ... surprisingly normal these days. There was a time when I had to stop typing every few minutes to rearrange my cock. Hell, there was a time when I wrote without any trousers in order to let my cock roam at will. These days, my cock is more likely to get excited by a well-crafted sentence than it is by what Harry and Doris are doing in the back row on the flight to Acapulco.'

'Acapulco? Why Acapulco?' Muse asked.

'I was going to say Marbella,' I said. 'But then I wasn't 100% sure of the spelling. I thought that perhaps there was a "i" in there somewhere. Perhaps I was getting confused with Abelia. You know ... the hedging shrub. Little bell-shaped flower.'

Muse frowned. 'You are a bit off today, aren't you?'

'Not just today. This is my third day in a row. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't have called you in.'

'No. Well, I was a bit surprised when your name popped up. Have you thought about a holiday?'

'Chance would be a fine thing,' I said. 'I have a deadline.'

Mused smiled. 'Not a holiday for you, silly. A holiday setting. You know. People do some very smutty things on holiday. Things that they wouldn't dream of doing at home. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. All that sort of thing. Although, typically, your characters aren't really Vegas characters, are they? Perhaps what happens in Tuscany stays in Tuscany?

'Here's a thought,' Muse said: 'Two middle-aged lady school teachers – from Yorkshire, perhaps – rent a Tuscan villa for a week in August and arrive to find that the place has been double booked. A mix-up with the online booking system. Not Airbnb. But something like that. As well as letting the villa to the school teachers, the robo-system has also let it to a mysterious young man and his female bodyguard.'

'Are the two schoolteachers lovers?'

'Not sure,' Muse said. 'I haven't really thought that far.'

'And why is the bodyguard a woman?'

'I thought that it might be a nice twist. An element of the unexpected perhaps?'

I nodded. Yes, that had possibilities.

The ageing Mercedes taxi crunched its way up the red gravel driveway and came to a halt in front of the broad terrace. The driver waited while one of the two women in the back counted out the agreed fare. And then he walked around to the back of the car, opened the boot, removed their two suitcases, and placed them on the edge of the terrace. 'Grazie,' he said. 'Grazie.' And then the Mercedes headed back down the hill.

A woman – early thirties, smart, dressed as if for business – came out of the house and watched as the two women approached.

'Janet Barker and Delia Hopkins,' one of the women said. She spoke with the tone of someone who was used to holding authority. 'We have a booking.'

The woman dressed as if for business frowned. 'But not here, I don't think.'

The woman who seemed to be Janet Barker fossicked in her handbag and produced a folded sheet of A4 paper. She unfolded it, studied it, carefully, and then handed it to the woman on the terrace. 'Here. I think that you will find that we do,' the woman who seemed to be Janet Barker said.

The woman dressed as if for business frowned again. 'There has clearly been some sort of mistake. I suggest that you take it up with the booking agent.'

And then a small Fiat arrived and deposited yet another woman. The new arrival was older. She was wearing sensible shoes, a black dress, and a crisp white apron. 'Buon giorno,' she said.

The woman dressed as if for business handed the new arrival the A4 sheet. 'There seems to have been a mistake. A fuck up.'

The woman read the A4 sheet, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head. 'La macchina,' she said. 'La macchina.'

The woman dressed as if for business and the older woman in the crisp white apron then had a to-and-fro conversation in Italian. And then the woman dressed as if for business turned to Janet Barker. 'Maria says that the machine seems to have fucked up. And she is pretty sure that you won't find anything else around here at this time of the year. School holidays. Everywhere's fully booked'

Janet Barker nodded.

'Maria has suggested that you could stay in the annexe tonight. And then we can, perhaps, look at it all again in the morning. But first I will need to see your ID.'

'Why?'

'Because I will. Your passports, please.'

I went to make myself a cup of coffee.

'How is it going?' Muse asked.

Well ... I have a start,' I said. 'Maybe 400 words? Something like that.'

'Good,' she said. 'Good.'

Muse didn't drink coffee. Or wine. She didn't eat either. About once a week she and I went to Hancock's. For lunch. The guys there knew us. They usually put us at a table in the corner. I sat with my back to the wall. Muse sat opposite me.

'The usual?' Marco would ask.

'Thank you.'

'And your ... umm ... friend?'

'She's watching her figure,' I would tell him. 'Remember?'

And Marco would nod and laugh – but not unkindly.

'So, where have you got to?' Muse asked.

'Janet and Delia, the double-booked guests, have arrived at the villa. Maria, the local cook-housekeeper, has suggested that they could stay in the annexe – for a night, anyway. And the bodyguard – who I think may be called Lydia – is just checking out their ID: making sure that they are who they say that they are.'

Muse nodded approvingly. 'See? Not that hard, is it? And I think that you are right about Lydia. There is a sort of ambiguity about the name Lydia: serene, pastoral, yet tough and uncompromising.'

Janet Barker handed over her passport. Reluctantly. 'Are you the manager here?' she asked the woman dressed as if for business.

'I am Lydia. I am Mr Tom's assistant. It is my job to ensure that nothing – and no one – disturbs him.'

Lydia inspected Janet Barker's passport and then tucked it into the waistband of her trousers. As Lydia pushed her jacket slightly to one side, Janet Barker could not help but notice that Lydia also had a gun tucked into her waistband.

'And yours?' Lydia said, holding her hand out in the direction of Delia Hopkins.

'Oh, yes. Of course,' Delia said. 'Sorry.'

'And what is your occupation?' Lydia asked.

'We are school teachers,' Delia said. 'Secondary school. It's school holidays.'

'And are you married? Do you have partners?'

'Alas, not at the moment,' Delia said.

'And you?'

'My husband died,' Janet said. 'Last Christmas. An accident. He was a helicopter pilot. Search and rescue. Although I don't know what it has to do with you.'

'It all helps,' Lydia said. 'Now, if you will just stand with your feet slightly apart and raise your arms. I need to pat you down.'

'Why?' Janet demanded to know.

'Because I can.'

'Ooh, this exciting,' Delia said. 'It's like something out of a telly film.'

Lydia smiled. She quite liked Delia.

'Well, I object most strenuously,' Janet said.

'I suggest that you put it in writing,' Lydia told her.

'I will. And to whom shall I send it?'

'You may send it to the King of the Fairies, for all I care,' Lydia said. And then Lydia said something to Maria in Italian before once again addressing Janet and Delia. 'Maria will show you to the annexe, ladies,' she said. 'I will hang on to your passports. You may have them back when you leave. They will be quite safe.'

'But ...'

'Supper will be served at seven-thirty. Prosecco will be served on the west terrace from six-thirty.'

'Oh, prosecco,' Delia said. 'That's like Champagne, isn't it?'

Lydia smiled. 'Well, I'm not sure that the citizens of Reims would agree. But, yes, it is generally white. And there are bubbles.'

'I like Champagne,' Delia said.

'Oh ... and we don't dress for supper.'

Janet Barker looked horrified. 'Don't dress!?'

'Well, we dress. But only casually,' Lydia clarified. 'Summer rules.'

'Oh. Oh, yes. Right. Duly noted.' Janet Barker looked relieved.

Lucca arrived just before six and started setting up the dining table out on the west terrace. The dress code for the guests may have been relaxed casual, but Lucca maintained a level of formality with his sharply-pressed black trousers, crisp white shirt, and black bowtie.

'Buonasera,' Lucca said when Lydia, now dressed in a loose, silky, navy blue T-shirt and a floral skirt, arrived and briefly surveyed the terrace and the surrounding garden. 'Prosecco, Signora Lydia?'

'Grazie, Lucca.'

Five minutes later, Janet and Delia arrived. Lydia immediately wondered why she had asked what their occupations were. It was so evident that they were school teachers. Janet was the 'take-charge' teacher. The 'keep-order' teacher. Delia was the student's friend. She was the 'we can do this' teacher. Lydia introduced them both to Lucca who poured them each a glass of prosecco.

'Is your ... umm ... the person you assist ... is he not joining us?' Janet asked.

'Mr Tom will be here shortly,' Lydia assured her.

'Why is Mr Tom late?' I asked Muse.

Muse briefly looked up in the direction of the ceiling. 'Why is he late? Good question. Because he can be? Because he is Mr Tom? Because Mr Tom is used to doing what he wants when he wants to? And, above all, because Mr Tom is mysterious.'

I nodded. Yes. That made sense. 'OK.'

When Mr Tom did arrive on the terrace, it was clear that he had been well briefed. Dressed in tan chinos and a crisp blue and red check linen shirt, he marched straight up to Janet Barker, his right hand stretched out in greeting. 'Ah, Miss Janet,' he said. 'How nice to meet you. How is your accommodation? Satisfactory, I trust.'

'Umm ... well ... yes ... very good. As a matter of fact.'

'And Miss Delia. How are you enjoying the prosecco?'

'Thank you. I'm enjoying it very much,' Delia said.

'Perfetto,' Mr Tom said, as he accepted a glass of prosecco from Lucca. 'Grazie, Lucca.'

The meal was simple. An antipasto platter of preserved meats, and grilled and pickled vegetables to start. And then a delicate raviolo, stuffed with the soft yolk of a duck's egg, served in a light duck broth. And then pink roast lamb with rosemary and garlic. And finally a selection of local cheeses. Delissimo!

And the table conversation was every bit as agreeable as the food. Janel Barker was even able to put her earlier confrontation with Lydia behind her. Lydia was, after all, just doing her job. It wasn't Lydia's fault that the 'macchina' had ... well ... done what Lydia had said that it had done.

Janet was slightly perturbed that Mr Tom offered no clues as to whom he was – or what he did that required that he should have an assistant who carried a gun. But, for a young man (Janet thought that he could not have been more that 27 or so), he was the epitome of charm and attentiveness. Janet thought that if he ever needed a change from whatever it was that he did (but didn't talk about), there would be many women who would pay handsomely for his company at dinner. Or at the theatre. Or ... well ... you know.

It was a mild evening and, after supper, they remained out on the terrace to enjoy an espresso and a glass of the local grappa. Whether by accident or design, Mr Tom sat on one side of the terrace, next to Janet, and Lydia sat on the other side of the terrace, next to Delia.

'Miss Janet,' Mr Tom said – a propos of nothing in particular – 'I wonder if you would like to accompany me on a stroll around the garden.'

'Oh. Umm ...'

'It's rather pleasant at this time of the evening,' Mr Tom said.

'Well ... umm ... yes. Yes, it is. And yes. Thank you. Yes.' And she took Mr Tom's arm.

Lydia smiled and, after quickly assessing that the garden appeared to be free of threats to Mr Tom's safety, she moved her chair slightly closer to Delia's.

Miss Janet and Mr Tom's 'stroll' only lasted for ten or twelve minutes and, when the returned, Mr Tom said: 'Miss Janet has expressed an interest in seeing my new Goldoni etching.'

Lydia looked at Mr Tom. 'Oh? Well ... yes. Of course. Do you need me to ...?'

'I think that we will be all right,' Mr Tom said.

When Janet and Mr Tom had gone inside, Lydia glanced across at Delia. 'Perhaps we should leave Lucca to tidy up,' she said.

Delia nodded.

'I have some Champagne in my room.'

Delia giggled. 'Champagne. Oh, gosh.'

'Maybe just a small palate cleanser.'

Delia giggled again.'

'We will leave you to it, Lucca,' Lydia said. 'Buona notte.'

'Buona notte,' Lucca said.

'Who is Goldoni?' I asked Muse.

'Goldoni? No idea,' she said. 'I assumed that he was one of your inventions.'

Was he? I thought for a moment or two. Goldoni? Oh ... yes. Franco Goldoni, perhaps. I knew him when I worked for Shelford's. Back in those days, investment bankers were a pretty cautious lot. But Franco was a bit of a cowboy. A charming cowboy. An Italian cowboy. A spaghetti cowboy. But a cowboy nevertheless.

'Yes. Franco Goldoni. A banker rather than an artist. A cowboy banker. Franco once made a five million pound bet on the basis of something he overheard at the pub while enjoying a liquid lunch,' I told Muse. 'In fact, he misheard it. He had the wrong outfit entirely. But, during the afternoon, word got out that Shelford's – which was where we worked – was betting heavily on Acme-Allied Properties. And, by the final bell, everybody was jumping in. Franco sold out first thing the following morning and made more than a mil. And that was after exes.'

Muse just shook her head in mild disbelief. 'I'm in the wrong business,' she said.

'Tell me about it,' I said. 'Anyway ... how are we going to handle the next bit?'

'You seem to be doing fine,' Muse said. 'My advice would be: just keep on keeping on.'

As a young teacher, Janet Barker had been a frequent frequenter of art galleries and museums. She had also built up a bit of a collection of black-covered Thames & Hudson art books. But then, as she rose up through the pedagogical ranks, more and more of her previously-spare time was taken up with school matters of one sort or another.

When, during their stroll around the garden, Mr Tom had mentioned that he had, that very day, acquired a limited edition hand-coloured Goldoni etching, Janet immediately pictured the exquisitely-delicate Paolo Goldini drawings that she had seen in the Harvester Gallery. Of course, Goldini was not Goldoni, and Goldoni was not Goldini. But that little detail had somehow passed Janet by. 'Oh. How delightful. I would like to see that,' Janet said.

Mr Tom seemed, at first, a little surprised. But then he smiled and nodded. 'So ... you are a fan?'

'Oh, indeed,' Janet said. 'Very much so.'

And so there they were in Mr Tom's room, with Mr Tom unwrapping his new purchase. 'There,' he said. 'What do you think?'

'Oh! My goodness!' What did Janet think? Her first thought was that Paolo Goldini had certainly changed his style. There was nothing particularly delicate about Mr Tom's new purchase. 'I was expecting a little pastoral scene.'

Mr Tom frowned.

'Yes. I was expecting something rather smaller. Something bucolic. Some exquisitely-drawn farm animals. Perhaps a shepherd or two. A milkmaid perhaps.'

Mr Tom still looked puzzled – although he did offer the suggestion that, perhaps, in another part of their lives, the handsome bearded fellow with the impressive erection and almost tennis-ball sized testicles might be a shepherd, and the lithe young thing sitting on his lap with her beautifully rendered vulva just beginning to accommodate the possible shepherd's magnificent member may have been a milkmaid.

'I suppose so,' Janet said. And she laughed a little nervously.

'Number one of an edition of 25,' Mr Tom said, pointing to the pencilled inscription in the lower right hand corner. 'And already the young lady's secret valley has a delicious rosy hue. One wonders if the artist increased the intensity of the colour with each thrusting print. What do you think?'

'Umm ...' What did she think? There was no question that the etching was very well done. Very well drawn. Very sensually drawn. But that wasn't Mr Tom's question, was it?

'Are you stirred?' Mr Tom asked.

'Umm ...'

'Does it engender a certain warmth, a certain dampness?'

Well, yes. Of course it did. But it was hardly something that she was about to discuss with Mr Tom. Janet was a senior educator. She was a pillar of her community. She was not some over-sexed tart putting it about in the pub on a Saturday night.

'Perhaps I could check?' Mr Tom said. 'Perhaps I could just conduct a quick finger test? I would hate to think that I had splashed cash on a dud.'

Janet said nothing. But, almost without realising, she spread her legs slightly.

'Oh, yes. That has worked very nicely,' Mr Tom said as he placed two fingers on the warm, damp gusset of Janet's knickers. 'So, not a dud. That's relief. Even for a hand-coloured etching from a small edition, Mr Goldini's picture was not cheap.'

Mr Tom pushed the slightly damp gusset to one side and conducted a more intimate exploration of the source of the dampness. 'Yes. Very nice,' he said.

Janet Barker suddenly felt as if her legs might give way beneath her. Fortunately, Mr Tom also divined the imminent collapse of her pedal support, and he eased her back onto the bed. He also removed her knickers – something which Janet seemed to realise was happening but made no attempt to prevent.

'Yes. That's better,' Mr Tom said. And, now unhindered by the silky fabric of feminine frippery, he set about encouraging Janet's slippery vulva to take on a rosy pink not unlike that displayed by the young woman in Mr Goldoni's erotic work.

Mr Tom may have been a surprise lover, but he was not an ungenerous lover. Using his tongue and his fingers, he brought Miss Janet, the upright pillar of her community, to a full panting, giggling orgasm before lowering his chinos and freeing his half-hard penis. Mr Tom's soon-erect member may not have been quite as impressive as that of the fornicating shepherd, but Janet had no complaints as it nudged its way between her slick labia and into her deep, hot, grasping vagina.

Meanwhile, just two rooms away, Lydia was pouring a couple of tumblers of Veuve Clicquot NV. 'No flutes, I'm afraid,' she said. 'But still ... Cin cin.'

'Yes. Cin cin,' Delia said.

And both women took a sip. And then Lydia walked right up to Delia and kissed her. Full on the lips.

'Gosh,' Delia said. 'Gosh.'

Lydia smiled. 'And now I think we need to remove some of those clothes,' Lydia said.

'Gosh. I ... umm ...'

Lydia eased Delia towards the bed, undoing Delia's skirt as she went.

'I've never ... umm ...'

'That's all right,' Lydia said. 'We don't need to rush. We'll just take it one step at a time.' And she kissed her again. Softly.