[Note to readers: Don't start here! It is better to start with Chapter 1 so that you will have some idea of what is going on. For those of you that have read this far please remember there are two narrators: Nick writing the main body of the text, and Lily adding her comments (without Nick's knowledge) in italics.
I know that this does not always fit with the typical Mind Control story but if you persevere you will see that it does belong in that category. And otherwise for those of you who are enjoying it, please be patient with the pace of posting as I am now having to finish writing the remaining chapters -- and I have a day job.]
Chapter 5
An interlude in a garden -- and a pretty girl offers Nick an apple
At peace with the world I sat out on the wooden bench in the little walled garden behind the house, notebook open on the rickety table but not working; listening to the occasional conker falling from the horse chestnut and hitting the patio.
It is one of my indulgences that I employ a gardener, although mostly she only does one morning a week. The thought of the gardener, Jasmine, always makes me smile, as she is a long way from the image her name conjures up. She has short hair, wears dungarees and is a lesbian -- she makes sure that I know this by referring as often as possible in our brief conversations to 'her wife'. Real life is allowed to get away with stereotypes in a way that would be instantly condemned in anyone who aspires to write. I like Jasmine, perhaps not unreasonably because I can feel that she likes me, and sees my writing as being a practical craft just like her gardening.
I wondered at the sense of contentment I felt on this afternoon. Of course the unseasonably warm October sunshine on the autumn colours of the garden had something to do with it. Perhaps it was also that I had spoken to Sandra and it had gone better than expected. She had taken it well. Almost too well I thought for a moment before getting annoyed with myself for being so unreasonable. Did I want her to be heart-broken, to throw crockery at me, or what?
Selfishly I slightly regretted that I had broken up with her after I had agreed to go to the gallery opening that night, the sort of event Sandra loved but which I could quite happily live without, and now I would have to go, on my own, and make conversation with others all striving, just a little too hard, to be wittier than Oscar Wilde.
"Do you mind if I pretend to study out here while you pretend to write?"
Lily must have been watching me for some time from the kitchen door.
"Of course", I said, ever the gentleman. In truth I would have felt irritated at anyone else intruding on this quiet moment, but not Lily. I watched as she spread an old blanket on the little area of grass, in front of my table, and stretched out on it, a book open in front of her.
And so I began the next phase in my campaign. For a while I had kind of played with the idea of not using all the tricks I'd learned from Sarah on him. He was kind of cute and he seemed to be falling for me without any of that stuff.
But now I knew about the mask I would have to make sure that he failed sexually with me, with all its consequences, so that I would have power over him. And after all it would be for his own good -- the poor thing was not enjoying the real intensity that sex can bring, the ecstatic agony of being in love with a wicked girl like me and finding that he could not fuck me.
After a while I realised that I was not really doing any writing, mesmerised by the slow movement of her feet their pink basketball sneakers, as she alternately lifted first one and then the other in the air. Secure that no-one could see me doing so I studied her arse in her tight jeans, and honestly admitted to myself that I wanted to run a hand down her back and over that shapely backside, preferably having first removed her jeans. And of course she turned over abruptly, almost catching me 'in the act'.
"I haven't heard the sound of pen on paper for a good ten minutes", she said mock severely. "That Booker Prize is not just going to turn up without you putting some serious work in and writing the great North London novel".
Despite her light tone I answered her a little more seriously.
"To be honest, I haven't written much lately, and what I have written was nothing special". I was surprised at myself for admitting this at all, when I hadn't said it to anyone, and even more that it was to Lily. She was hardly going to be impressed; not of course that that should be an issue, except that awkwardly it was.
She sat up, now cross-legged on the blanket.
"I guess you need a muse. That's what it's called isn't it?"
I don't know what it is in Lily that invites honesty and even confessions, but something does.
"Well, you know, I'd have to call you an anti-muse. You can be a bit distracting", I admitted, and then cursed myself for being so open. But it didn't seem to bother Lily. In fact she seemed pleased.
"Hmm, so you find me distracting do you? I rather like that". Not giving me a chance to reply, she neatly got to her feet in one graceful motion and turning her back on me strolled to the end of the garden.
