Notebooks of the Young Wife by Tara Black Page A

the books seem to be arranged on the shelves more or less in chronological order.’
    ‘Right. So you know the deal: we find enough to hook Samantha and she’ll put in an offer for the lot from the coffers that Oceanus, Inc keeps overflowing.’
    ‘And then goes on to donate the ninety-nine percent she doesn’t want to us?’
    ‘Just so. Now we’ve got a couple of hours before dinner and I want to root through some of these papers. How would you feel about starting a scan of the titles for pornographic gems?’
    ‘Sure thing, guv.’ I was expecting acquiescence but Tamsin seemed positively enthusiastic. ‘That’s strictly f-f stuff I’m looking for, yeah?’
    ‘Well, with goings-on between women providing the main thrust of it – and not too much literal thrusting unless it’s dildoes. And you can check anything you turn up against their catalogue. I was told it’s bang up to date.’
    By the time twenty to seven came round I’d had enough of dusty papers, most of which were meaningless through elisions made for the purposes of concealment, or if decipherable, uninteresting. I could bear only so many repetitions of statements of the type: T–– gave G–– 2 doz with the b–– after which they c––ed. The fact that this particular birching and copulation (?) took place at M–– H–– on the 12th June 1731 helped not one jot. Tamsin, on the other hand, was looking well pleased with a pile of six or eight volumes at her elbow. When she saw me glance over, she nodded up at the clock.
    ‘We’re getting dinner on the hour and there’ll be an aperitif laid on first.’
    ‘Enough said, my girl. Lead on. I take it you know the way.’
    It was as well she did for the modest dining room, though in fact the neighbour of the study we left, was reached only by approaching it from the other side. Both had windows overlooking a rising stretch of parkland topped with a crown of trees that, just at that moment, were caught in the rays of the setting sun. I did the honours with the bottle of Brut sitting in an ice bucket alongside a bowl of mixed nuts. We stood in silence before the view for a bit, and when the glasses were empty I refilled them.
    ‘So is this courtesy of Mrs Jencks – or should I say Matilda?’ Tamsin blushed and I repented of the remark. ‘Sorry, I’m being nosy. Perhaps I should make a confession instead. When the cook was practicing her swing on you, I’m afraid I was watching.’ I don’t know quite what made me say it – some kind of rush of bubbles to the brain perhaps – and it was an anxious moment before I saw the smile breaking.
    ‘Shit, I had a funny feeling about it. That’s in addition to the far from funny feelings in my bum.’
    ‘Let me explain.’ I jumped in quickly in case her mood changed. ‘It wasn’t my idea. A lad came on the scene, took me round the back into a pantry and there you were through the door. Next thing I knew he had his cock out, pumping for all he was worth and to save my life I couldn’t have taken my eyes off it till the business was done. So there you are: I wasn’t exactly ogling your peachy bits, but he certainly was.’
    The PA gave a chuckle and munched on some nuts. ‘Nice to know, really, but I don’t reckon I’m cut out for s/m stardom. Not when there’s muscles like that at the back of the strap.’
    The talk was interrupted by the appearance of Laura, to set down hot plates and a stock of red wine. She opened up a hatch to the kitchen and carried over a dish of lasagne and a large bowl of green salad. We agreed that we certainly could help ourselves and ring the bell when we were done. So with that she left us to it and we tucked in. It was soon apparent that cook was good for more than swinging the arm.
    After a while, with inroads made into the second bottle, Tamsin said, ‘I’d better come clean too. You’ll twig anyway if I don’t.’ I made well-only-if-you-want-to kind of noises, but she seemed set on telling the