Under My Skin Read Online Free

inexorably to food and the culinary fantasies that come with all calorie-controlled diets. Coffee—decaf, of course—was served in the lounge, accompanied by a short talk by a local expert on the wines of the Languedoc region—an extracurricular activity of some sadism, I thought, for a place under prohibition. I gave it a miss and went to check out the servants’ quarters.
    The girls (or the beauticians, as the brochure insisted on calling them) lived at the far end of one of the wings of the house, their rooms carefully segregated from those of the guests. I went via the outside, across the immaculately manicured lawn, through a small gate marked PRIVATE . The grass on the employees’ side was decidedly less green, but then these ladies weren’t paying two hundred quid a day to stare at it. I looked up at their rooms. Only a few still had their lights on. The morning shifts started at 8:00 A.M. Tough business, beauty. On the top floor there were a couple of windows open. From one a tinny stereo was pumping out house music, the volume too muted for the choice of music to make sense. Bedsit land. I’ve always had a sneaking fondness for the simplicity of it. Kate thinks it’s the Peter Pan in me, never wanting to live in a real adult house. I’ll leave you to guess what I think of what she thinks.
    I wondered what they made of their lives, boarding school girls by night and handmaidens by day, massaging, pummeling, waxing, and cosseting an endless stream of women who spent more in a day than they probably madein a week. Presumably they were all paid-up members of the church of health and beauty. But even the faithful can be tempted. Maybe one of the bedsit windows concealed a recent convert to Living Marxism, dedicated to exacting vengeance on the complacent middle classes. I could hardly wait till morning.
    Back in my room I washed down some leftover popcorn from
Aladdin
with a couple of hits from my hip flask. I tried to think full but my stomach wasn’t fooled. More than a couple of days of this and I’d be ready to sabotage the place myself. I channel-flicked until there was nothing left but night-owl trash, then changed into my new swimming costume. It seemed pretty unlikely that the saboteur would strike again so quickly, but I was being paid partly to let Carol Waverley sleep more easily in her bed, and, anyway, it’s one of my favorite activities, midnight swimming.
    Someone, however, had beaten me to it. As I entered the atrium, the moon emerged from behind clouds and bathed the pool in a cold, foggy glow. I saw a figure moving cleanly through the water, a lovely smooth breaststroke, up, down, up, down, the ripples flowing out like cut silk behind her. I stood watching her, counting the laps, envying her elegance and her ease. Then, just as I was in danger of becoming mesmerized, she stopped and stood up. She put her hands up to her face, pushing off the water, and let out a long gasp of tiredness, pulling herself up over the side of the pool. In the moonlight I could see she had a beautiful figure: long legs; high, rounded breasts; and slim waist in a simple black swimsuit. I did not recognize her from any of the staff mug shots and certainly nothing that lovely had been in the dining room earlier. From a chair nearby she picked up a long, dark bathrobe and pulled it round herself, sliding her feet into a pair of slip-on shoes.
    She was still oblivious of my presence. Since I was standing directly between her and the exit, she was about to getthe fright of her life. I braced myself for her shock. But it never came. Because she didn’t leave that way. Instead she walked round the pool to the back of the atrium and out through what should have been a locked door.
    I went after her the second it closed, but by the time I reached it it was locked again. I knew from the plans that it led not to the treatment rooms but to the garden, and from there one could reach the girls’ block. I tried the other doors.