Destined to Feel (8 page)

I am captured, imprisoned behind this small window in what appears to be some sort of castle. A distant memory reminds me that I have only ever stayed in one chateau before, just outside Reims when visiting Champagne in France, but the vision of the mountains before me must mean I am further east towards Austria, or Italy maybe, or perhaps on the outskirts of Eastern Europe. It’s impossible to be sure. I shudder at the unfathomable reality I face, compared to the delightful European adventures of my younger years. How did I end up in this mess? I know how it started and I just don’t want to go there. I notice the towel is pooled around my feet and I am naked as I continue to peer out the small window frame. I feel like Rapunzel without the luscious long locks to provide a means of escape, nor the handsome saviour — at least not yet. I desperately hope that Jeremy can trace my whereabouts, as I hold on tight to the only item on my body, my cherished bracelet. I raise it to my lips, willing Jeremy to sense where I am, willing him to save me from whoever has abducted me.

No, I tell myself, no more tears, no more emotion. I am alive, albeit a little battered and bruised, but essentially unharmed. I need to focus on the positive aspects of this dismal situation.

If they wanted to harm me, or worse — I shudder — kill me, they have had every opportunity since I stepped into that toxic car at Heathrow. As stoically as possible, I pick up the towel from the floor, wrap it around my body under my arms and search the room for any of my belongings.

I notice the revolting piece of luggage I arrived in is no longer in this room, they must have removed it while I was having a shower. Relief washes over me — that claustrophobic journey is certainly not something I ever wish to experience again. I open the antique mahogany cupboard and notice a dress hanging in there, covered in plastic with an elegant handwritten note neatly attached.

Please be dressed and ready for dinner by 7.00 p.m. sharp.

I glance over to my clothes lying on the bathroom floor. Clothes that by my calculations I must have been in for at least thirty hours or so. I pick up my shirt, take a quick sniff and immediately discard it, physically and symbolically kicking the pile aside, never wanting to wear or touch them again after what they have been through, after what I have been through. But do I want to take what is being offered in the cupboard? My emotions threaten to unravel yet again as I take a deep breath and unpeel the plastic. One simple, elegant, classic cream dress. Not quite the virgin bride, but even so… What the hell is going on here? How can I be deposited in a room, presumably somewhere in Europe, in a frigging suitcase and now this?
Please be dressed and
ready for dinner
— what the hell? My head starts to spin as I think, for the first time, to check the door of the suite. Locked, as anticipated. I don’t want to dress up. I can’t play dress-ups under these circumstances. I was never good at it, until…my mind floods with images of the stunning red designer dress Jeremy had made for me and I almost crumble under the stress of the anguish it causes. Why aren’t I with him right now? Because I am imprisoned in here. I bash my fist against the door in exasperation, my legs give way and I’m a crumpled heap on the floor. I glance towards the window and opportunistically wonder if someone will come shattering through it and rescue me from their hovering helicopter, à la James Bond or
Mission
Impossible
.

I race over to the window desperately searching for any sign of movement, rescue attempt, anything. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why do such rescues only ever occur in movies?

Darkness descends on the rapidly diminishing pink and purple hues of twilight. I run my fingers through my hair in both fear and frustration as I contemplate the dress beckoning me from the other side of the room.

My stomach rumbles on cue, reminding me that it has been some time since my last meal.

Nothing like basic physical needs to assist with the decision-making process. Damn it! I walk tentatively over to the dress — it’s not like I have other options available at the moment and I am stark naked. God, what if they arrive and I’m like this? This thought provides me with enough momentum to pull the dress off the hanger even though I’m filled with disgust as I touch it.

They’ve even supplied cream underwear to match — how considerate. At least I won’t be knickerless again. I hastily get dressed in this flowing, sophisticated ball gown without wanting to dwell on it any more than I have to. I notice a box at the bottom of the cupboard, knowing that it will contain high heels and take them out, desperately hoping they won’t be too high.

Reasonable, I sigh, in the scheme of this insanity. I quickly comb my wet hair and leave it sleek down my back. I don’t want any more fanfare than is necessary and I don’t have anything to put it up with. Either way, I don’t care how I look and have no interest in checking in the mirror. After cleaning my teeth — grateful a toothbrush and paste have been supplied — and splashing my face with cold water, I go and sit on the edge of the chaise longue, the bed being a bit too high to be comfortable. The longer I attempt to sit, the more anxious I become. I start to notice the suppleness of the dress’s silky material against my skin and I don’t want a bar of it. I decide to lie on the carpeted floor, even though I’m in heels and a full-length dress, and attempt to meditate. Savasana, there’s nothing like a good corpse pose!

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, close your mind, relax your body… Doing this, I realise how tense my body actually is and I make an effort to relax my shoulders, which are high and bunched towards my neck. I deliberately tighten each muscle group so I can release it while I continue my breathing. All this concentration is helping to distract me from my reality for a few seconds at least. It feels good to be lying flat on the floor, stretching out what has been cramped for so long. I allow my breath to flow in and out of my body carefully, ensuring each one is relevant and worthwhile until I eventually calm into a deeper state of being.

The shout at the door disrupts my mental solitude.

‘She’s down, we need attention immediately!’ the urgent, accented voice calls.

Someone is suddenly by my side checking my pulse. My mouth is open with no words coming out. I stare upwards focusing on the scene before me. An intense-looking man wearing a white coat comes racing towards me as I am raised into an upright position. He waves something under my noise that makes me shudder away from it. God, smelling salts! Do they think I’ve fainted? They’re talking amongst themselves in a foreign accent I don’t immediately recognise. I shake my head in dismay. My chin is held firm as a bright light shines in my eyes.

What is it with doctors and their damn probing and blinding flashlights? I blink and try to squirm away. My pulse is checked again before I am escorted to my feet, though a combination of my attempted meditation and high heels makes me a little wobbly to say the least. Who are these people? A young lady in a maid’s outfit, the doctor type and another male who looks like a butler. I stand in shock before them.

‘Dr Blake, what happened? How do you feel?’ They speak to me in English.

‘Can you talk, Dr Blake? Please answer us, are you okay?’

Well, they certainly
appear
to be concerned about my wellbeing, which has to be a positive sign. I can only hope. I stare at each of them intently, one by one, wanting to soak into my memory the faces involved in my captivity. Under different circumstances I may have noticed that the doctor, hiding beneath his white coat and furrowed brow, is actually a very attractive man, a pair of funky glasses covering his chocolate-brown eyes, dark blondish hair and a smile that could light up a room. The butler is an average-sized man but looks more brawn than brain, a bit of a miniature muscle mary, and the maid looks like a sweet innocent girl in a ridiculous uniform with a long dark plait down her back and wide hazel eyes. How dare they ask how I am when they have done this to me, put me in this situation? I could scream as anger and panic simultaneously well up from deep within me. Just as suddenly, I realise they are eagerly anticipating my answer, awaiting my response. Well, they can shove it! I vow then and there to remain mute, silent, until I know exactly what is going on. They may have shipped me from London to wherever we are, against my will, but these people are not, will not be hearing my voice or response, to anything!

The doctor removes the stethoscope from around his neck and places the cold metal on my chest; its temperature alone makes me automatically inhale. He moves silently around my shoulders and above my breasts, his fingers alternating between barely touching the fabric of my dress and my sensitive skin as he makes his way around my body. I’m not sure whether to hold my breath so he can’t hear what he is hoping for or attempt to maintain a regular breathing pattern for him to report on. He stops before my decision is made.

‘She is fine, stable.’ He nods to the others. ‘Fetch a glass of mineral water, immediately.’

The maid flies into action at his command. His hand remains firmly on my elbow as he guides me to a seated position on the chaise longue. It is only at this point that it dawns on me how weak I actually feel. It takes me by surprise.

‘Please, drink this.’ He hands me the water the maid has fetched.

I accept it from him and drink. The cool liquid bubbles refresh my dry mouth. I raise my eyes again, staring at the doctor’s face, seeking any information or understanding as to my situation. I can see concern and professionalism, nothing more. I don’t think he’ll hurt me. I hand the glass back after finishing the last mouthful, which he passes quickly to the maid, all the while never taking his eyes off me.

‘Well, Dr Blake, I see no reason for you being unable to attend dinner this evening with Madame.’

What? Who is Madame?

Oh, so close… I almost uttered the words out loud.

I notice a small smirk curl the edge of his lips, which quickly vanishes with his next words.

‘Please, allow me to introduce myself.’

I nod to acknowledge his request. Somehow his manner puts me more at ease. ‘My name is Dr Josef Votrubec. I will attend to you during your stay with us.’ He takes my hand in his own and gives it a firm but steady shake before assisting me to my feet. ‘Louis, Frederic, I am comfortable that Dr Blake is ready to be escorted to dinner. She is in good health and will benefit from some fine food and wine.’

Louis, the butler-looking one, appears instantly by my side while Frederic, a much larger man, miraculously appears from outside the room and maintains a massive presence in the doorway. Well, it’s not as if I would have been successful should I have decided to run, they have all exits well attended. I glance anxiously between Doctor Josef and the foreign bouncers allocated to ‘escort me to dinner’ and I’m not sure whether to roll my eyes at this ridiculous scenario or not. The apprehension still coursing through me prevents such frivolity. The doctor’s smirk reappears on his face as if he can sense exactly what’s going on in my brain. I’m furious that he finds my situation so amusing. Louis has his elbow crooked towards me expectantly, his face a mask. This is absolutely farcical. Does he honestly think I am going to loop my arm through his and waltz elegantly off to dinner? Moments pass as if we are all frozen in position and time, only their eyes moving silently back and forth between each other before settling on me, awaiting my next move. I exhale both from nerves and the realisation that I have no choice but to play along.

Through all those hours when I was crunched up in that suitcase, I had honestly imagined that my destination would see me thrown into a skanky cell, locked behind bars, lying on damp, concrete floors with only a bucket for company. This just doesn’t make sense, dressed up in a cream ball gown and high heels, and two butler-cum-bouncers waiting to escort me to dinner with Madame, whoever the hell she is. Even though this situation proves to be more comfortable physically than I had imagined, it is the emotional consequences that seem to be creating my extreme discomfort. Stockholm syndrome penetrates my scattered thoughts and I give myself a harsh reminder of my commitment not to speak. It is with that conclusion that I am able to take my first step towards the door, bypassing the butler-bouncers, ignoring an outstretched elbow —

I don’t want to touch them and certainly don’t want them touching any part of me.

As I stride towards the door, I sure hope I’m looking more confident than I feel, and I wonder what on earth could be waiting for me on the other side. Frederic stands back to let me pass which surprises me as I have no idea where to go. Louis whisks past me so fast my dress swishes around my legs as if I’m standing in a gentle breeze.

‘Please follow me, Dr Blake.’ He starts off at a rapid pace down a long, carpeted corridor. I turn to look at Frederic, who extends his arm to invite me to continue, confirming my options are limited to one way — forward. I glance back into the room to see the doctor repacking his equipment in his small black case. As he completes his task, he looks up towards me.

‘
Bonsoir
, Dr Blake.’

Once again, I have to catch myself from answering ‘
Bonsoir
’ back to this perplexing man.

‘Enjoy your dinner, I have no doubt you will feel better after some food.’

I quickly turn my head away, resigned to the fact the bouncer behind me is less than patiently waiting for me to be on my way. The vision before me mentally transforms into a horizontal version of Alice and the rabbit hole. As nerves get the better of me, all I can think is, ‘Oh fuck, here we go again!’ And I really don’t like to swear very often unless it’s absolutely necessary.

After walking along what feels like the longest corridor that I have ever experienced, we eventually turn into what seems like a great hall. I take a tentative step onto a parquet wooden floor that enables me to hear as well as feel my legs as my steps clatter nervously forward.

Louis is setting quite a pace, so I focus on the task of following close behind him as we pass beneath an enormous chandelier and subtle stained glass windows. Towards the end of the great hall are two enormous wooden doors, which when closed make an elaborate arch. I lift the front of my dress slightly so I don’t trip over it. As we stride across the superbly polished floor, the dress wafts behind me. There are two guards standing on either side of the massive doors and I am intrigued as to the history of their ornate uniforms.