Fast And Loose

The prospect of never finding out was too maddening. I knew I had to step away, for the sake of my sanity, but how could I? Especially when I might be in a position – geographically speaking – to investigate.

On a Thursday night, four days after the disappearance, I went back over all her old blog posts, right from the beginning, raking through them for clues.

What a bittersweet blast of nostalgia it provided. Her first post, back in May, reminded me of those times. Up to my eyes in books, preparing for my university Finals. My desk had been littered with Pro-Plus and cue cards. I’d been browsing shops for a dress to wear to the June Ball, drawing a blank until I fetched up at an independent boutique that sold gothic and alternative gowns for special occasions. I gorged on the dark jewel-coloured silks and delicate laces, the corsets and ribbons and daring décolletages and giant black corsages. Then I noticed that they had an underwear section and I clicked straight away. I’d always been a sucker for posh knickers.

A feast of frills and tight lacing met my gaze. When I was earning, I’d come back and buy that bustier, and those cami-knickers, and that suspender belt. I already had fishnet stockings galore, but they were cheapies from the alternative market. I wanted some of these, finespun as cobwebs. They would feel like angels’ breath on my legs. And as for the matching knickers…

But for the time being I had no money and no time to get a job until after the exams. I would have to dream on. All the same, I was tempted to Google the underwear brand to see if anything came up on eBay. It didn’t, but something else did.

Hi, my name’s Mia and I want you all to know that I bought a pair of knickers to die for today.

I want you all to think of me, and picture me wearing them.

Before you can do that, I’ll introduce myself. I’m a twenty-one-year-old student, living in a medium-sized English city, doing all the ordinary student things like studying and going to bars and gigs and clubs with my friends. But there is something my friends don’t know about me. Nobody knows it, and you are going to be the first to hear it.

I’m kinky.

There. It’s out in the open now, although none of you knows me and it feels a little strange to have revealed this dark secret part of myself to anyone and everyone who might click this way.

Of course, with you being the first to know, you’ll guess straightaway that I’ve never explored this side of myself with anyone else. I’ve written stories, hidden deep in password-protected folders, and I’ve drawn pictures that I’ve ripped straight up and thrown in the bin. But I’ve never spoken of it, never bought anything relating to it and certainly never given my vanilla ex-boyfriend any kind of clue that I might want something different.

But you and I are going to find out what it’s all about. I can’t wait, can you?

But first – the knickers.

I finally decided, after weeks of shilly-shallying, to order something from a clothing website I’ve been obsessed with lately. They sell the most beautiful, most shocking, most scandalous underwear and I covet it all, but I’ve never dared buy any for myself.

Until last week, after finishing the bottle of wine that was left in the fridge from a house dinner party. The Dutch courage chose me a pair of the most exquisite little barely-there panties – a scrap of flimsy lace, held together with satin ribbon. They’re a little like boyshorts and a little like French knickers. When I put them on, they don’t quite cover my bum cheeks, and you can see everything through the filmy patterns of grey-black lace. You can see where I’ve shaved myself especially for you – something I’ve never done before, and the Ladyshave was shaking in my hand. Next time I’ll try wax. So I’m bare and smooth and my knickers feel so light I think they might dissolve at any second. But I can’t forget I’m wearing them, even if I put something on top of them. It’s like having nothing on, and yet it’s also like being marked in some way. The thought of the wind blowing up my skirt and them being seen on the street has made me so excited I can hardly keep still.

So I’m sitting here at my computer, wearing nothing else, and wanting to touch myself through the lacy nothingness. Can you see me? Can you see my nipples and my thighs and the satin ribbon running over my hips? Can you see how ready I am?

I’m so very ready.

Look at me.

Underneath were several line drawings of her, from neck to knees, in the knickers. One a front view, one from the back and one of her sitting spread-legged on a chair. They were erotic in a classy, alluring kind of way, and I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

That night I ordered the same pair of knickers and to hell with the expense. My ballgown came from eBay and had a cigarette burn in it the vendor hadn’t declared.

But it was worth it.

And so was Mia. I minimised the screen, my fingers trembling on the mouse. I loved the girl. She was me, but with the ability to write and draw. I couldn’t let her fade away, I just couldn’t.

Chapter Two (#u6ad89a5c-c281-5569-8461-5ab4923ea9d5)

‘Ella, what the hell’s up with you today? If I’d wanted a zombie I’d have hired one.’

Dean, the chief sub, had reason to bark at me.

My copy was littered with typos and I’d put the wrong name in an article about a pensioner’s massive premium bonds win. The truth was, I hadn’t slept at all the night before, spending the darkest hours trawling Mia’s blog for clues about the identity of J and the whereabouts of The Academy or her flat. But I hadn’t turned up anything I didn’t already know. Her flat was in the city somewhere; The Academy was a short distance outside it; J was an older man in ‘a distinguished profession’ that remained nameless.

Contrite as I was to have made such an uncharacteristic slew of errors, I couldn’t help resenting Dean’s timing. His reprimand coincided with the departure of the journalists from an editorial meeting, and they filtered out into the open-plan office, looking curiously at us. The last to saunter into my line of sight was Tom Crowley. I ducked my head, but the damage was done. I’d seen his glorious gorgeousness in tight jeans and a biker jacket, and now I wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on anything else.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered to Dean. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘So it’s true.’

The voice was Crowley’s. The vibrations of my skin told me that he was standing very near, near enough to smell the leather, and the divine aftershave he wore. Fuck. My head was swimming.

Don’t look at him. Don’t answer him.

I knew I was blushing and I hated the heat that suffused my cheeks, my forehead, my neck, my bloody chest – where would it stop?

‘You are a vampire,’ he finished.

God, I hated him. But at least he’d said it only to me, lowering his voice so that nobody else would hear it. He could easily have played it for the cheap office laugh. So he was vile, but not super-vile.

‘That’s right,’ I said tightly, tapping at my keyboard and keeping my eyes glued to the screen. ‘I shrivel up at the sight of fake tan.’

He laughed, and I swallowed as his hand materialised on my desk. What lovely long fingers they were, splayed out elegantly next to my Slytherin mug. Where those fingers had been…

‘Well, that’s what I wanted to hear,’ he said, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the hint of something promising in his tone.

Electric-blue eyes caught me in their beam. It was appropriate that they reminded me of one of those fluorescent fly-zappers in fast-food restaurants. I was the fly in this scenario.

‘Did you?’

He reached into his inside jacket pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.

When I unfolded it, I found it was a flyer for the opening night of a new bar.

‘The Crypt,’ I said, deciphering the gothic font.

‘Yeah. I’ve been invited to the grand opening. Thought it might be up your street. Up your graveyard path,’ he corrected himself with a flash of dazzling teeth.

You’re asking me on a date? I stopped myself saying the words. I didn’t want to give him an opening to tell me it was just that nobody else wanted to go.

‘So you want me to go to this thing with you?’ I said instead. Once again I’d missed my opportunity to showcase an effervescent, cynical wit. When I thought of all the amazing repartees I’d perfected over the last few weeks, for use in just such a situation, I wanted to weep. Wasted hours.

‘Well, why not? Could be fun. Don’t you think? I might need you to do my eyeliner for me though.’

Mm, Tom Crowley in eyeliner.

At this point, I should have given him one of two responses. (A) The aforementioned effervescent, cynical wit, deployed in the delivery of a devastating putdown. Or (B) A ‘who the hell do you think you are?’ rant.

So which did I choose? I chose (C).

‘OK then. What time?’