JEHANNE SAT BY the side of the road, waiting for the stage coach. It was almost noon and the sun beat down on top of her straw bonnet. She was tired already, but there was still far to go. Her head drooped with dejection. She could do nothing but wait. At least the farmer had promised to meet her with his cart when she alighted at the coaching inn. Jehanne knew that she ought to think herself lucky. Positions for wet nurses were getting fewer these days. Untying her pack, she took out the hunk of bread and piece of cheese she had saved for the journey. It did not take her long to finish eating. She opened the stopper on a leather bottle, but there was no water left. Sighing, Jehanne chewed on a stalk of grass. The green taste of it made her feel less thirsty. It was another half hour before she felt the faint vibration of iron-shod wheels on the road. The plume of dust was visible before the coach itself came into view. Wearily Jehanne pushed herself to her feet and picked up her p

THE CARD FABIENNE found in Howard's pocket bore one word. Domia. The print was gold and the embossed card of good quality. She turned it over. On the reverse side was the address — 14 rue St Honoré. So Howard did have someone. She had expected as much. His excuses for being late for their dates had been growing more feeble. Fabienne’s chin came up. The eyes which stared back at her from the mirror were cold with fury. She knew that she looked good. Damned good. Her face was pale under the stylishly cut black hair. The subtle make-up suited her — understated eyes, full lips outlined with pinkish-brown pencil. No lines yet on her face, breasts still high and firm, legs long and slim. Men stared after her in the street all the time. Howard saw how they looked at her, their eyes avid but regretful. He liked men to look at her. She was not for them. It was all for Howard. So why this? He had phoned earlier that evening to cancel their dinner date. His voice on the answerphone, explai

I HAD HEARD of them, of course. Grace Jones had herself been portrayed as a peep-show entertainer for a publicity campaign to promote an album, some years back now. My lover and I had made love often to one track -‘Warm Leatherette’. But I had never seen a real peep-show. In fact, I didn’t know if they still existed or were some sort of throw-back to the Sixties, like Betty Page and Tit Bits magazine. I had to admit that I was shocked by my lover’s suggestion. “You mean actually go to one of those places?’ I couldn’t believe he was serious.A friend had told me that he’d been to one of those peep-hole affairs while on holiday in Europe. He said laughingly that someone had actually been vacuuming the little cubicle while the girl on the turntable postured and pouted for the customers! But that was Europe. I didn’t think we in Britain could ever be so dismissive about sex. ‘Paying to watch women expose themselves. It’s so. . . seedy,’ I said, imagining the unsavoury darkened booths,

Sarah seemed to empathise with her. ‘You need to see something for yourself, then you will understand what I speak of. When you leave here, do not go back across the cornfield, but make a wide circle and enter the settlement by the postern gate.’ ‘Why?’ Sarah smiled sagely. ‘You'll find out. Only remember not to judge too harshly. Learn from what you will see. I am giving you knowledge. Use it as you will, but do not abuse that knowledge. You will understand what I mean later.’ When Charity took her leave of Sarah, a short time later, she was still puzzled. Whatever could she expect to learn by simply taking a walk through the forest? She shrugged, trusting in Sarah’s integrity. As she walked she swung her bonnet and lace cap against her full skirts. The rhythm was soothing and dulled her into a mood of relaxation. Before long, she found herself enjoying the beauty of the forest. Many of the leaves were tinged with the yellow and russet which presaged the approaching fall. Dappled

KATE SAT IN the tube and thought about herself in relation to her fellow passengers. Did they, she wondered, have any idea of what sort of person she was? She thought not. Looking around her, she smiled to herself. Definitely not. This was, after all, Monday morning and, in time-honoured fashion, all the other passengers — most of them men — had their heads buried in their newspapers. And most of the newspapers were pink. Kate too had a pink newspaper folded on her lap, but she hadn’t yet opened it. She was too busy thinking. She had spent most of Sunday thinking as well. Just thinking. Since that last evening with Steven and the night at the opera, she had been thinking that she could be anything she chose to be. She had opened herself up to her feelings and, displaying herself to be a blatantly sexual being, she had reaped results. A total stranger had noticed her, had evidently wanted her, yet his methods had been as enigmatic as his whole demeanour had suggested. He had given her