Lynne is initially hired to teach Petra horse riding in preparation for her upcoming role in her mother's directorial début but when veteran actress, Fatima discovers Lynne is also a lesbian she negotiates a separate cash payment if Lynne will share some of her lesbian experience and insight with Petra. In part three, after dinner with two of Lynne's friends, things take a dramatic turn with Petra's clumsy attempt at seduction. It ends suddenly when Petra has an epileptic seizure, forcing Lynne to take affirmative action. In part four, Lynne wakes up in Petra's bed to find Fatima sitting beside the bed but after explaining the situation, things are taken to a whole new level when Petra tries once again to seduce Lynne behind her mother's back.
NB: Thank you to all the kind people who commented. This is one of those stories where a writer throws the plot out the window and just lets the characters go. It's called writing by the seat of your pants instead of laying out plot points, I prefer the latter but on this occasion I decided to let go and see where this one leads.
*****
Initially my reaction to Fatima's grim expression and her comment, "boy was I wrong about you," was fear and shame. I was lying in her daughter's bed wearing nothing but a pair of knickers. I assumed Petra had probably told her mother about her seizure last night but what the hell was I doing in her bed? I hadn't heard her get out of bed so I guessed she was probably downstairs and probably told to stay there while her mother dealt with this breach of protocol. Had I broken any rules? Petra was twenty one, I was twenty eight so even if something had happened there wasn't much Fatima could do but here's where it got a little messy.
Fatima had mentioned another gay woman who could have given Petra some insight into the lesbian mind, but that woman might also take advantage of the situation and do a little exploring of her own. Last night my hand had indeed been halfway to paradise before nature took over and turned me from seductress to nursemaid.
The shame came out of that and the fact that I was nearly naked and Fatima was elegantly dressed in a two-tone brown silk blouse and wool blend trousers. She wouldn't have been out of place on a BBC talk show and I looked like I'd just come off the set of a porn film.
Fatima read my expression and her eyes softened as she brushed at my hair.
"You were hired to help Petra prepare for her latest role but last night you went above and beyond the call of duty. You were there for her when she needed you most and that is something a mother can never forget."
I felt some of the fear dissipate in that moment but I stayed under the duvet. Fatima managed a crooked grin as she glanced at the clothes I'd borrowed on the window seat.
"And I see you helped yourself to some of the clothes from the wardrobe room."
"It um, wasn't my idea," I bit my lip.
"No," she replied, "it was Petra's idea, she told me this morning," she flicked at her hair.
"She told me a few other things this morning."
I remembered having my hand halfway up Petra's leg but said nothing as Fatima went on.
"She's not a serial liar like her father but she does keep things from me. This business might seem glamorous but the glitz and glamour come at a cruel price, your privacy is now public knowledge and the press are only too willing to expose us as frauds, predators, selfish, the list goes on and on. When I first started out there was a code of honour between reporters and stars, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement that enriched both parties. But these days a careless comment gets tweeted and before you know it you've got millions of people, often with very low intelligence demanding your head on a plate, sometimes literally."
She picked a ball of fluff from her trousers.
"But I'm rambling," our eyes met briefly, "a story of an actress's daughter who has a seizure can be taken several ways, she's under too much pressure from a perfectionist demanding mother, I'm a bitch, she's the victim, she's taking drugs and is anorexic, it goes on and on."
"I told Fiona," I blurted out, "I had to ring someone but she won't tell a soul, I made her promise," I reached out for my phone, "Shannon won't talk either."
"Good," she watched as I pressed the button and then frowned.
"Shit, my battery died."
"Let me see," Fatima took it from me, "it's the same as my phone, I'll put it on charge and you can take a shower," she nodded at the clothes, "you can keep those clothes as well. If you want I'll get Petra to take you into the room to select some more clothes. What's down there will not all get used, and some of the clothes will go to charity."
"Thanks," I looked at her, "how is Petra?"
"Downstairs arguing with her boyfriend or whatever she calls him."
"I didn't know she had one."
"Neither did I until this morning," she told me, "which should tell us both something," she rose and looked at the door.
"Don't take her riding today or tomorrow. I'm taking her over to Lewis in the morning to scout out some shooting locations but you're welcome to stay here today for as long as you want."
"I have to call Gordon."
"I'll do it for you," she smiled, "now go on, get into the shower and come down for breakfast," she moved towards the door and I followed her progress. She stopped and leaned against the door jamb and looked down for a moment.
"I know people say this a lot and sometimes they even mean it but if there's anything I can ever do for you, don't hesitate to ask. I may not always be available right when you need me and I might not be able to do everything but I'm here for you, if you need me."
She looked past me and smiled.
"There, I've said it," she nodded at me and left the room. I stared blankly after her and felt a surge of emotion flooding through me.
Petra was downstairs when I eventually came down the staircase. I'd put on the pussybow blouse Petra had 'loaned' last night but left the ties hanging loose and the top two buttons undone. The satin garment was tucked into the jeans Petra had made me change out of and the outfit caused Fatima to raise an eyebrow as she looked me over.
"Nothing like casual chic, it suits you. A nice jacket and heels would complete the look."
I thanked her for the compliment and made my way through to the front room with a tray of toast and coffee. Petra was sitting in a recliner by the window wearing a dark blue shirtdress, belted at the waist and a pair of sheepskin boots.
She had the phone to her ear and judging by the conversation she was talking to a girlfriend because she said.
"I know, he did the same thing to me. He's such a fucking sleaze, he made out like the hotel was owned by his dad but he only owns twenty percent. I went all wide eyed and pretended to be impressed but you know what they say, girls talk," she glanced at me and waved.
"And it's not even like it's a good hotel, it's nice but the service is shite and every time you step into the hotel bar there's at least one Arab prince wanting to marry you. I was like what the fuck, have I got a sign around my neck saying, desperately seeking?"
I was only half listening to the conversation as I ate my breakfast, but by the time I was halfway through my coffee I'd ascertained that the hotel was in Doha and she'd been there six weeks ago. Petra hung up as I drained the coffee and swivelled in her seat to look at me.
"Looking good, babe that blouse was made for you."
"That's the second time someone complimented me on my outfit today."
"Well get used to it, mum was really touched by the way you looked after me today. At this rate you could shag me senseless in front of her and she wouldn't bat an eyelid," she smiled, "just kidding about that last bit."
"How are you feeling today?"
"A little washed out but I'm picking up," she looked down as her phone rang again and swore.
"Fuck, not again," she swiped the screen.
"What the fuck is it now? I thought I told you I never wanted to hear your voice again?"
A few moments later she got out of the chair and stalked across the room.
"No, no, no, it's not happening and if you try to call me one more time I'll block the fucking number and tweet that picture of you in the hotel with my knickers on your head," she left the room still talking. I exhaled slowly and sank back against the back of the couch as I tried to come to grips with this new turn of events.
A couple of minutes later Petra entered the room again and dropping the phone on the coffee table, sat on the couch with her back to the arm and stretched her legs out until her toes were touching my leg.
"I'm sorry about going off like that but I've had it with him."
"Who's him?"
"Andrew."
"Your boyfriend?"
"Hardly," Petra rolled her eyes, "two shags and a blow job hardly count for a commitment. He heard I was up here and decided to call and invite himself up for a week or two, like I've been here nearly two weeks and suddenly, it's oh I miss you."
"He might be in love," I ventured.
"Andrew in love?" Petra chuckled, "hardly, I don't think he can spell the word love unless it was tattooed on some woman's arse."
She slid further along the couch and put her feet onto my leg.
"He's one of those Eton brats, being groomed by daddy to be the next CEO of daddy's little consortium. He's crying right now because I told him my legs are closed," she went on, "but by nightfall he'll be sliding between some woman's legs and telling her he loves her."
"So he's a bawbag," I grabbed her foot.
Petra burst out laughing.
"I love that saying," she finally managed, "I heard you say that the other day."
"It's a beauty, we've got some good sayings."
"Tell me some more," she pushed against my other leg, "what do you call a dirty person."
"Minger, skank, mawkit."
