River of Ink Part 1
This had always been my life; my role within society. I was the one you looked at, fantasied about or found in some way perplexing. I was the mistress – never the wife. I was the other woman. Well, the other girl. It was a role that I had always enjoyed ever since I found out it suited me all those years ago. But it could never have suited me forever. I know that now.
An Unknown Year. Somewhere in London.
My life was changing very fast; I had finished school not three months ago and now I was far from the dismal town that had never loved me. I was in London now. A city of lights and dreams; a city where there was in the very air; a city where I could become famous, either for my literary skill of for my body. By which, of course, I mean that I wouldn’t be in the least bit offended if I were to reach social climax by my modelling photographs. It was the hottest summer on record and people were walking around in little more than underwear, not that I objected to the heat nor the passion that the mid July sun created. I had always been a summer girl, even though I was born in winter. After I had got off the crowded train at Holborn station, I consulted the map he had given me. I was still rather a long way from the flat he had paid for. Looking ahead of me, I noticed the street was full of people in black basking in the sun, even the cobblestones were enjoying the light; they glistened a little from the soft shower that had fallen while I had been on my train to Cannon Street. The high street was lined with small designer shops I had only ever read about in glossy leaf magazines and in articles from The French Kiss Press. It all seemed so glamorous. It was as if I was walking through a movie set for a movie about a girl married to a rich man. I would never be married to a rich man, no matter what I thought. I was only ever the young, pretty, flirtatious mistress.
I had no idea what life had in store for me; you see, the quintessential morals of the plagued society had never really made much sense to me, for I could never understand why one shouldn’t just do something because one felt like one wanted to, like it would make one happy. For that reason and many more that I’m sure you will discover, they never really applied to me. That was a fact I had always enjoyed. I had the luxury of unbridled beauty and a blatant, unshakable, unapologetic love of life. Where I had come from, people hated me for it. That’s why I jumped at the opportunity to rendezvous with my gorgeous Owen. I did know his surname, but in my role as His Secret, I always found myself told not to write his surname, as – as the husband of an old retired London socialite, he couldn’t be found to be having a pretty teenager on the side, not by The Press. And I couldn’t pronounce his surname anyway.
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