Page 2 of Obedience

In the bathroom the fiercely dominant persona of Margot slipped away entirely, as Greta anchored herself to the sink; fingers blanched as white as the cold porcelain beneath her hands. Breathing heavily, her vibrating legs were on the cusp of forgetting their role in keeping her upright. She was so turned on and wet, it irked her. Tightening her grip she sucked in a breath. The cold air hitting her lungs brought with it the terrifying realisation of the degree to which she had just lost control, almost fully.

Greta was angry that she had instructed Remi to use her mouth and that it made her come so hard, three times. The feeling of wanting to drag Remi to her, to tear her trousers and underwear off and feel her weight, naked and pressing against her, made her stomach roil. Yielding to that was absolutely not an option. Staring at her hands, she forced the annoyance back, refusing to let it manifest as tears. In five years, she had cried a lifetime's worth, she was absolutely done with tears.

After retrieving a hair clip from her washbag, she scooped up her thick brown waves and pinned them up, needing the weight off her hot neck and shoulders. Returning her hands to the cold porcelain, she fixed her gaze on her reflection. The odd silver strand in her hair caught the soft light above the mirror, reminding her to make an appointment at the salon, yet another thing on the ever-expanding to-do list that her career left little room for.

Wiping a smudge of liner from her bottom lashes with the pad of her finger, she waited, her breathing falling quiet as footsteps sounded outside the bathroom. The bedroom door opened and clicked shut, and only then did she turn on the shower. Keeping her eyes locked on her reflection, palms pressed hard against the cold surface, Greta tethered herself so she wouldn’t relent and ask Remi to join her.

Remi was not Greta’s type. Not in the slightest. She had always been attracted to feminine women; women she herself looked like. Long hair, brimming with femininity from their mannerisms to their clothing, every fibre of their being would scream fem. By specifically requesting someone who wasn’t her type, Greta believed her choice of escort had been strategic. Without the distraction of attraction, she could stick to her rules and avoid the complication of catching feelings. It protected her very precious time and eliminated the use of the dreaded dating apps and small talk she had no interest in having. The meetings she and Remi had provided everything she wanted, neatly packaged and entirely under her control.

Although five years had passed, life was still completely unrecognisable. Needing a distraction from the visceral pain of grief, Greta had thrown herself straight back into work after it happened, but everything outside of her career remained so far removed from what it used to be like she still couldn’t catch her breath. But she had what she needed. Her work was her life, and she had her sexual need—albeit a new type of sexual need—satisfied by Remi.

With her forehead pressed to the warm green tiles, the water hammered against Greta’s back. A familiar pressure still pushed behind her eyes, but she pretended it wasn’t there. Having just experienced three of the most intense and—at £300 an hour plus the cost of the room—the most expensive orgasms of her life, she should feel satisfied. Instead, the void remained; a hollow ache that could never be filled. The wound she carried was open, raw, and she was still bleeding from it. It wouldn't heal. Nothing could heal it. On days like today the haemorrhaging in her heart could exsanguinate her completely, provided the invisible hands around her throat didn't crush her airway first. Turning off the brass taps, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a huge white towel. It was time to go home.

Hair down and makeup a soft, subtle glow, Greta was ready, with Margot concealed from the world in an oversized green jumper, high-waisted jeans, and brown brogues. Looping her bag over her forearm, she left the do not disturb sign hanging over the door handle and left the room, leaving the sea of crisp white linen on the massive hotel bed behind her, pristine and untouched. The decoy overnight bag sat on the ottoman to be collected tomorrow when she returned to check out. The elaborate charade always felt like an outlandish waste of money and time, but it was the price of her privacy and her needs. Remi being in her apartment was—and always would be—out of the question.

Prepaid rooms and pseudonyms, while using the hotels and AirBNBs within the city she lived in, made her movements easy to hide. Greta had become adept at hotel rotation, never using the same hotel twice within a certain time frame. Adopting the role of a businesswoman, she would enquire after the hotel’s Wi-Fi reliability for international calls she’d never make. It was a carefully choreographed dance; Greta would arrive first to set the stage, followed by Remi, whose professional discretion was exactly what she paid for.

Chapter two

Lymsil

‘Hiya, Ma!’ Dylan shouted down the hall, the small stained-glass panel rattling in the front door as she kicked it closed behind her.

Dipping her head and wincing, she threw her bag and keys onto the monochrome chequered tiled hallway. After toeing off her Converse, she headed into the converted dining room of the Victorian terraced house in Chorlton, in the leafy suburbs of Manchester, where Dylan lived with her mum, Margaret. The house that Margaret had inherited from her parents, had now become part home, part care facility after the tragic accident ten years ago that had taken her mobility and speech, but never her awareness or her love for Dylan. Although living in an area of affluence, their money didn't go to décor, but to survival, to the care packages and the adaptations that kept Margaret at home. It was a tight, sometimes gruelling existence, but they had each other and to Dylan that was enough.

Margaret’s room was a jarring collision of Victorian charm and medical necessity. High magnolia walls boxed in a hospital bed that left little room for much else besides a reclining chair and a bedside cabinet. A pole clamped to the side of the bed held an electronic feeding pump, the plastic and metal a stark contrast to the original hardwood floors that Dylan had spent days meticulously sanding and staining in a colour similar to the walnut blinds. The floorboards that were now weathered and worn from the wheels of the silver trolley used by the nurses and Dylan. Above the mantle, a widescreen TV hung where her grandma’s vintage mirror did when Dylan was little. Through the bay window, the tree-lined street of smart terraced houses looked as peaceful as ever. The golden light, sliced into neat rows by the venetian blinds, illuminated Margaret’s wheelchair and the neatly stacked boxes of medical supplies tucked into the alcoves.

Dragging the chair as close to the bed as possible, Dylan leaned to kiss her mum on the cheek. ‘How’s it going, Margs?’ she said cheerily.

Her mum offered the small, hitched smile that was all she could manage, letting out a contented sigh at the mere presence of her only daughter. Under different circumstances, she would have feigned a bollocking for Dylan’s habit of calling her Margs or Margarillo—or some other variation of her name—instead of Mum. But in the quiet of that room, Dylan knew her mother loved her cheekiness.

Dylan’s humour had always pushed boundaries, often making her mother wince and shout, even though Dylan knew she was secretly dying with laughter. It was a reaction Margaret often stifled when Dylan was younger, careful not to encourage her daughter’s perpetual silliness. By the time Dylan was a teenager, the feigned bollockings—and sometimes real ones if she took things too far—were commonplace in the St John household.

‘Legend-faced Margs here has absolutely smashed it out of the park today,’ Priya enthused in her soft Scottish accent, while hanging Margaret’s feed bottle onto the pole attached to the bed.

Among her mother’s small nursing team—part NHS, small part privately funded by Dylan herself—Priya Anjali was Dylan’s favourite. The perfect blend of technical nursing skill and raw empathy. A fifty-four-year-old quintessential Scottish mother of two who never pulled her punches and took absolutely no shit—from anybody. Priya was the only person brave enough to give Dylan a literal clip around the ear for skipping meals, or spending too many hours buried in her studies or in the gym. Over the years, their relationship had shifted from professional to personal. They were confidantes who traded life stories, tears, hugs, and advice over cups of tea and plates of toast at the kitchen table in the quiet moments between care tasks.

Dylan grinned mischievously at her mum and wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Oh, ey? What you been smashing, Mother?’ She leaned to kiss her cheek again and whispered, ‘Better not be someone’s back doors in again.’

‘Dylan St John!’ Priya belly laughed while rolling her eyes at Margaret, who had closed hers in mock disgust.

The pronunciation of their surname was a bug-bear of Dylan’s. People invariably yet understandably—but still much to her annoyance—plumped for Saint John. The way Sinjin rolled off Priya’s tongue, coated in her Scottish accent and motherly tone made Dylan smile every time.

‘Well,’ Priya went on, ‘scorecards of ten all round from physio. Chest is good—no, I’m sorry, the word they used was excellent.’ Dylan tilted her head and proudly cocked an eyebrow. ‘Last day of antibiotics today and—’ Priya paused, inhaling sharply for dramatic effect. ‘Drum roll, please, Dyl.’ Dylan drummed her fingers on the side of her mum’s bed. ‘No more upset tummy!’ Priya jabbed a plastic spike into the feed bottle with a triumphant grin, as Dylan crashed an imaginary cymbal with a loud ‘tish!’

‘Mother dearest! I’m gonna need you to calm the chuff down! You’re making me look bad with all this showing off. All I’ve done today is submit one assignment and pay through the nose for a bloody overpriced iced coffee.’ A lie felt wrong, but full disclosure was absolutely not an option. Having sex for money was simply not something she would divulge to anyone. Resting her forearms on the edge of the bed, Dylan leaned closer. ‘Pri, do you want me to do that?’ she offered, nodding at the extension tubing Priya was about to prime before connecting it to her mum’s gastrostomy tube.

‘Err, no thank you. Don’t be thinking you can be out gallivanting and then waltz in here and take over,’ Priya joked, pushing her glasses up her nose with the back of her hand before pressing the prime button on the feeding pump. ‘I think we’ll manage, won’t we, Margs?’ she said over the sound of the machine’s whirring cogs, tipping her head to Margaret with a smile.

‘In that case, I’m gonna have a quick shower before you go, Pri. Alright, Ma?’ Dylan kissed the top of her mum’s head, leaving her lips pressed into the hair for a long moment, and whispered, ‘Lymsil.’

Love you more, said it last—the acronym they’d traded back and forth for as long as Dylan could remember.

‘Have you started your dissertation, Dyl?’ Priya questioned, her tone soft.

‘Not yet, Pri. Any day now.’ Dylan laughed nervously, crossing her middle and index fingers while waving them in the air at Priya. ‘If only I had chosen a patient group less specialised than young people with rare cancers. It’s almost as if I want to make my life harder.’

‘It’ll be worth it when you’re shaking the hand of the Dean on graduation day in Whitworth Hall, again, Dylly. A degree in nursing and a master’s in clinical research, all in four years? That’s pretty bloody impressive.’