Shameless Exposure

"We'd need a new title," I said. "We can't call it The Scottish Affair because half of your problems happened in Brazil." Caroline knew I'd been working on a second volume of our memoires and had almost finished the first draft. She finally agreed it was right to warn others of the charity tax scam perpetrated by Regina Heart. She didn't mind the publicity surrounding the first book any more. She had worried people wouldn't take her seriously at work, but it turned out that most of the men and all of the women working in Monsaint thought it was great, especially the board members.

"It should be called Shameless Exposure," said Caroline. She came straight out with it. "And the bit from my holiday diary can be the first chapter."
"Hang on a minute, I'm the writer in this household."
"Well you couldn't have written about my trip to Soho because you didn't know anything about it."

Stumped by Caroline's logic, I turned back to the beginning of the diary and imagined it as the start of a book about our experiences last winter at Castle Dunlaggin on the Isle of Mura...

I suppose this is a confession, but it’s a confession of stupidity, not unfaithfulness. It was a genuine mistake. Xena told me about the Orgatron Training Centre, how everyone was going, and how fabulous her orgasms had become. I tapped the address into my phone and it came up with a location in Soho. Did Xena say Old Brompton Road? Did I mishear and type in Brompton Row, or did the phone just anticipate where I wanted to go?

     27 Brompton Row was an old shop front painted black. There was no big sign saying Orgatron Training Centre, but I expected it to be discreet. I spoke my name into a crackling chrome box and was admitted to a dim hallway with period décor; dado rails, deep skirting boards and red damask wallpaper. I was met by a maid who spoke poor English.

     “Thank goodness you come. Very particular man. Must be red hair.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I had made my appointment for a consultation at the Orgatron Centre a week previously, after Xena had been so enthusiastic about it.

     The maid, a small lady from somewhere like the Philippines, couldn’t answer any of the questions I had lined up. I wanted to know how much the course cost, how long you signed up for, whether you could rent an Orgatron before deciding to buy. She just shook her head as if I was mad and guided me into a dressing room full of theatrical costumes. She gave me an ivory coloured corset, silk stockings, and frilly bloomers. She gestured that I should take off my work clothes. I stripped and started to pull on the bloomers but the maid looked horrified and shouted “No! Must be clean for Chinese man.”

I said I wasn't sure anybody would be interested, but then I turned the page.