Helen awoke on a couch. She felt a little stiff, and stretched herself. She thought she must have been dreaming. The last she remembered was her car swerving to avoid another coming out of a driveway to a large house. She glanced at her watch, it was almost six, but these light summer evenings meant it was still as bright as when she had left the restaurant after lunch. She reached for her gold cigarette case and slim silver lighter. She lit and breathed deeply from the long, slim cigarette. It tasted strange, and she felt the urge to cough. She flicked open the cigarette case, they were her usual brand. She told herself she needed a drink. She rested her cigarette on the blue glass ashtray. She stood up, smoothing the cool black leather of her trousers. She liked this pair, so sleek and shiny. She crossed to the sideboard and found the bottle of pastis, her favourite drink in the afternoon. She poured a generous measure and mixed it with some water from the jug. As she brought the glass to her smooth, maroon-painted lips she hesitated at the unfamiliar smell. She told herself she must be feeling ill, everything she liked seemed to taste strange, not quite right.
Then a memory came back to her mind. Of course, there had been an accident, she had been in the hospital and then the convalescent home. She had only come back to her house that morning, a large early nineteenth-century mansion outside Dijon. She felt now as if she would have to go and find if she had some tablets. Obviously the time in the hospital had disorientated her seriously. She poured another glass of pastis and went back to the couch. She flicked through a copy of 'Elle', she must have brought it home with her. She read an article on this Autumn's fashions and another on Sophie Marceau. Flicking through she saw an advert for holidays in Britain, it stopped her. She looked at the pictures. Of course she knew London and a few places in Kent, but there was something so familiar about the lovely view of the Downs, they looked so different to the French countryside she knew she loved. She could not place what was wrong, and tossed the magazine aside. She stood up and walked over to the window. She gazed out over the garden and the fields beyond, in the distance she could see farmhouses, the whole view was pleasant and familiar.
"Madame?"
Helen turned at the sound of the voice to see a maid walk in. At first she felt somehow guilty as if she was an intruder in the house, but then she realised it was her maid, Yvette. She was an attractive woman in her twenties, with long dark hair pulled back from face into a ponytail. She wore a black sleeveless silk blouse and a smart leather skirt stretching to her knee.
"Yvette." Helen said as if to confirm.
"Is there anything I can do for you madame?"
As she said those words Helen felt strange thoughts coming into her mind. She walked over to the large armchair and sat down. Yvette stepped forward, as if this was a familiar pattern. Helen noticed her heels were tall and as sharp as daggers, but that seemed right and proper.
"Come, sit at my feet." Helen said and Yvette obeyed.
Yvette sat at Helen's feet as if she were a pet dog. Without thinking Helen found her hand idly stroking Yvette's hair. As she did she began to think how good it was to have Yvette lapping at her clit. Helen shook herself, she had never had sex with a woman and yet she was here stroking one thinking about her tongue working her pussy. As the thought reappeared Helen realised she was aroused, softening and hardening all at once.
"Yvette." Helen did not know what to say next, but Yvette needed no guidance.
The maid got to her knees and crawled between her mistress's splayed legs, her naked arms sliding along their leathered thighs.
Helen tried to speak but words would not come as Yvette slowly eased down first the zip of her leather trousers and then to the leather panties which to Helen's surprise were concealed below.
Helen grunted as she realised that in moments a woman's tongue would be lapping... And there it was, the warm wet tongue expertly teasing the lips of her sex, encouraging them to part, then there was a tingle of something hard on Helen's clitoris as Yvette's tongue stud bobbed against it, with each touch pushing Helen to orgasm. Helen was gasping, her eyes closed, her fingers fumbling blindly in Yvette's smooth hair, her ankles crossed behind Yvette's back, trapping her, pulling her deeper into Helen's snatch. It did not take long before Helen was quivering on the edge of orgasm, but Yvette was practised and kept teasing, gently licking in unexpected places. Helen was lost to the world, her body was shaking with unreleased pleasure.
"Now." She said in a pant.
In seconds Yvette's firm probing tongue had finished its job with a couple of strokes and Helen shrieked as orgasm took her. She shook through her limbs, through her body, her heart pounding and heat rising through every part of her flesh.
Helen slumped back in the chair letting herself subside. She knew that was a sensation she would not soon forget, though wasn't it her usual afternoon delight? She felt confused.
Helen opened her eyes to see Yvette on all fours, her skirt hitched up around her waist and her bum proud in the air. Helen reached to open a box on a small table beside the armchair without thinking. She buckled on the strap-on dildo she found in there quickly, then fell to her knees and slid on her leather towards her maid. The dildo soon found its target and slid easily inside the wet maid. Helen had no idea how she knew what to do. She thrust with confident strokes as her fingers found out Yvette's breasts and nipped and teased her hard nipples. Yvette had no words, just grunts then increasingly moans as her mistress's thrusts took her higher and higher.
Helen realised she was running juicy herself, the sense of power of taking a woman from behind, of taking her to orgasm.
Yvette let out one long moan and toppled to the carpet, all thoughts dismissed except the reports of pleasure coming from all over her body.
Helen clambered up from the floor. She went to the brandy on the sideboard and poured large glasses for herself and Yvette.
"I am glad you're back to full health madame." Yvette said as she sipped at her brandy.
"Yes, Yvette, so am I." Helen responded, again almost automatically.
Yvette finished her brandy and glanced at her watch. "Monsieur will be home soon. I'll start the dinner, madame, I have some lovely calves' livers."
Helen's immediate reaction was to say that she hated liver, but then she remembered that actually she quite liked them. She was going to ask Yvette, who 'monsieur' might be, but then realised she was being stupid, of course she meant Helen's husband, Alain.
"I think I'll have a rest before Alain gets back. I'm still feeling rather tired."
"Certainly madame." Yvette stood, gave a little curtsey and left Helen alone.
Helen finished the brandy, the burn of it in her throat felt unusual but she knew she liked it. She left the lounge and wandered aimlessly up the stairs. She felt uncertain where she was going, as if she had only seen the rooms once, maybe in photos, but not for real. She clearly was not back to her normal self, it was if there were two of her, a natural reaction to things that found all this strange, and then another self to whom the house, the clothes, Yvette were all so familiar. She told herself to ask Alain over dinner a bit more about the crash that had clearly shaken her so much.
Helen walked into her and Alain's bedroom. Like the rest of the house it was plushly decorated, with a sizeable four-poster bed. Large fitted wardrobes filled one wall and in the opposite wall was a door through to the en-suite bathroom. Helen wondered if she should take a bath to relax herself, but then decided she needed something more. She needed to clear her head and show Alain that she was back to full strength. She walked slowly to the wall beside the bed and pressed at a particular flower in the ornate wallpaper. As she did the door slid back and opened into what she knew was her and Alain's 'play room'. She stepped through and felt a tingle. The lights in the room came on as she walked in. The panel slid closed behind her and Helen looked up at the mirror which covered the ceiling. The woman looking down at her was in her late twenties, her body firm and tanned. She wore a black shiny bustiere, of leather as soft as butter, that showed the tops of her firm tanned breasts. Her arms were tanned too. Her fingers, their nails perfectly manicured, rested on her smooth leather trousers. Helen could not look away and walked back and forth, still looking, the sharp heels of her black leather ankle boots sinking into the thick carpet as she stepped. She ran her hand over her stylishly cut dark hair, that reached barely beneath her ears. For a moment Helen felt it should be longer; for a moment she felt she should be seeing a woman with dated glasses and long rather tangled hair. Surely that was not her, and anyway her eyesight was good, she could see clearly enough. She was having strange thoughts.
Helen lowered her gaze. The room was as she remembered it. There was the large circular divan covered with maroon silk sheets and cushions. There was the horse, coated with black suede, its leather-lined manacles in place. She strutted over to the mirrored wardrobe set into the wall and slid it open. Inside was a range of exotic clothes, costumes, corsets and, what she was looking for, a glistening rubber catsuit. She took it down and grabbed a pair of the thigh-length boots beneath it and carried them over to the divan. She laid them out and bent to remove her ankle boots then slide off her delicious trousers. She slowly undid the silver buttons of her bustiere to expose her pert pierced nipples. The sight made Helen stop. Surely that was wrong. Tentatively she touched the small platinum bars which sat in each nipple and was glad she did, the sensation was strange as she turned them and moved them back and forth, different to anything she could remember, but nice, exciting. Helen left her erect nipples to slip off her leather pants, of the same soft leather as her bustiere, but now it was rubber she wanted.
Helen picked up what she remembered to be her favourite catsuit, the interior already powdered so it could slid easily up her shapely legs. In moments her bum was coated with the polished rubber, the material cold against her skin, but rapidly warming from her body heat. She slipped one arm then the next into the sleeves. The catsuit clung to her body like a second skin. She slowly slid up the two-way zip, sealing her tingling breasts into the rubber, coating her in the shine all over, from her toes to her neck. She hurried to slide her legs into the thigh length boots and zip them up. As she stood again, rising in the high heels, Helen felt so erotic, her whole body on show in the tight shiny rubber. She strode back to the wardrobe, knowing her bum was swaying sexily with every step. She pulled out rubber opera gloves and enjoyed pulling them up to her elbows. Then she tied a mask on, the leather cords holding in place. The final touch was her whip, like a long black rubber dildo tapering to a point. Expertly she cracked it a couple of times. This felt new, it felt strange but she realised it felt good.
Helen heard clapping behind her. She turned suddenly, to see Alain by the door. He was six years older than herself, toned and masculine. He wore a black top and relaxed trousers. His chiselled face smiled, but Helen could see lust in his deep brown eyes too. She strode to him, and seized him, pulling him in tight for a kiss and to allow her tongue to probe deep into the man she knew she just had to screw. She could feel his hands all over her: running across the slippery service of her catsuit, cupping her firm buttocks, teasing her sensitive nipples. As they broke, Helen was panting, eager to strip this man and feel his hard cock driving into her.
"Not so fast, Helene." Alain said.
Helen slowed. The way Alain said her name seemed odd, the 'h' was missing surely. Well sod it, he could call her 'Ellen' if he wanted to, just so long as she could straddle him dressed in rubber.
Helen let herself be led by Alain. He took her to the horse and she was uncomplaining as he locked first one wrist then the other to the horse and spread her legs wide with his hands. In moments Helen felt the firm grip of a spreader replacing them as Alain locked it in place. Part of Helen panicked, she was now helpless in front of this man, her body on show in skin tight rubber, unable to move, her legs spread wide by the bar between them. Alain had taken her whip and Helen heard its swish as it flew through the air thwacking down on her rubbered buttocks. She wanted to yell, but instead a moan came out, followed by a purr. Suddenly Helen realised that she enjoyed this. Her breasts were squeezing tight against the restraining rubber and her snatch was running juicy with delight. The whip came again and Helen moaned aloud, realising she was now eager for the next hit. It came and she grunted, her whole body taut with a mixture of pleasure and pain.
Then things went quiet. She could hear Alain moving around behind her, but, restrained, she could not turn to see what he was doing. In moments he was behind her again and she felt him teasing down the two-way zip of her catsuit from the other exposing first her buttocks, throbbing from the whip strokes and then her pussy. She could feel his large hard penis between her cheeks, then the smooth grip of her whip came up against the lips of her sex. They were sodden and it slid in easily. The head of Alain's cock was probing her arse, and she knew he was going to take her there. She thought he would split her, but slowly, gently, covered with something cool and oily his cock eased into her, it was a surprisingly good fit. His strokes and his turns were matched by what he did with the whip grip, the sensation duplicated, doubled in strength. In moments Helen could see nothing bar a blinding flash. Beneath her rubber her body was slick with sweat as it twisted back and forth trying to ride, trying to escape, the sensations, but there was nowhere she could go, she was locked in and could only let the pleasure wash over her. As Alain spurted within her, muscles clamped hard on the grip and she let go, her body shuddering, her throat shrieking in pleasure that seemed endless.
Helen wondered if she had passed out. She could feel Alain licking his own spunk from around her backside before crawling between her rubbered legs to drink her juices. His tongue touching her engorged clit, triggered her again. Helen tried to suppress her sounds, but as the pleasure rocked through her again, she was a sexual animal, communicating her ecstasy in grunts and moans. Then Alain released her from the horse and the spreader. Helen fell on him, her tongue lapping at his own rubber covered body. They rolled over the thick carpet, their rubber rippling and squealing as they stroked and nipped each others' body's. Helen's hungry, grateful mouth found Alain's rod, already hard again, and she supped deeply, with an obvious skill that surprised her, but then Alain rolled her over, holding back his cock by force of will, pinning her beneath his boot-clad legs he thrust deep inside Helen, moving up her body as he did so that he could ride her high and his hard body could stroke against her quivering clitoris. As he saw Helen's eyes roll once again, he too let himself go, filling the air with deeper sounds to accompany her shriller moans.
The two of them lay back on the floor, their fingers slowly running over the rubber that coated them. Eventually Alain propped himself up.
"I'm taking a shower. You're welcome to join me. Yvette said dinner should be soon."
"Good." Helen giggled. "I'm starving. You go on, I'll tidy up here, and have a quick one after you."
Alain kissed her and disappeared back into their bedroom. Helen picked herself up and eased out of the boots, the gloves and the catsuit. She gathered her leathers, but did not put them on. She fancied something special, that purple dress she thought. She walked through to the bedroom, Alain had gone and she had the blue-tiled bathroom to herself.
Helen walked into the dining room. Her dress was dark purple leather, hanging in one piece from a slim strap on one shoulder to the floor. It was slit to the thigh and as she walked on the high stiletto heels of her matching sandals Alain caught glimpses of the jewelled thong she wore beneath. Helen felt like a goddess, a sexual goddess: all powerful, proud of her body, her head still spinning with the day's pleasures. What she was, was shown by how she appeared. Diamonds were at her ears, around her wrist, in her necklace and studding her nipples. She was a treat wrapped in the sleekest clothes a woman could own. She bent over to kiss Alain, dressed smartly in a maroon shirt and canvas trousers. Helen took her own seat. She took a sip of the wine, not one she recognised, which surprised her as she could see from the label it was a merlot, a wine she loved. She clinked glasses with Alain. She was about to say 'cheers' but instead out came 'salut'.
"Salut, Helene, my love." Alain said and as he did any worries Helen had were gone.
The meal passed quickly, they talked about Alain's work as a surgeon at a private hospital in Dijon, about some friends of theirs he had met, and then on plans for a holiday.
"I wondered if we should go back to Crete."
"Back to Crete?" Helen asked, the name seemed distant, she could only picture scenes as if from a book of postcards.
"I thought for a week, now you're back to full health."
Helen tried to remember, there was something she meant to ask Alain about her health, but it had faded. Instead memories of lying in the beach and walking in the mountains of Crete filled her mind.
"That would be lovely. When did you think?"
"Not this weekend, Paul and Monique are coming over, do you remember?"
"Yes."
"The week after next then. Why don't you pop into Dijon tomorrow and get some new outfits? If you take the Mercedes, I'll go in the Porsche and we can meet for lunch at 'Papillion'."
"That sounds lovely." She remembered they did good fish there. She loved fish and shellfish too, but hadn't that made her ill, lobster, oysters? No, what was she thinking? She loved oysters, they made her so horny.
"What have you planned for this evening?"
"I thought an early night."
Alain raised a speculative eyebrow.
"Well, maybe something soft and slow. But I haven't been feeling right today, I must confess, everything's seemed a bit strange and distant."
"I'm not surprised, coming home after that time away must be odd. You'll settle in. A trip out tomorrow will do you good. Why don't you run yourself a bath, put on that relaxing tape you enjoy and I'll come up and give you one of my special massages?"
"That sounds great."
"You are so good to me." Helen said, leaning across to kiss her husband.
"And you're so wicked." Alain joked.
Helen lay back in the bath, which was big enough to accommodate herself, Alain and Yvette too. She loved the way the soft bubbles were running off her tanned limbs. In the background she could hear Alain's tape, the music had sounded odd at first, but he was right, it had relaxed her. Her mind felt clearer. As she stroked her legs she thought of times as a girl when she ran along the beach at Biarritz, and how brown her face had been when Alain and her had returned from Val d'Isere after last Christmas.
"You looked relaxed." Alain said. He was dressed in a dark blue towelling robe as if he were a proper masseur.
"Mmm, especially now you've turned up."
Alain gently ran the tip of his fingers over Helen's shoulders and she purred at the sensation. She closed her eyes and Alain's strong fingers pressed on her, becoming firmer with each stroke.
"Helene, your drifting away, you're as light as a cloud, all your worries are drifting away from your lovely body."
"You sound like a hypnotist." Helen said drowsily.
"I am a hypnotist, don't you remember?"
"I suppose so, I remember nice things."
"Good, well I'll help you remember the nice things better and forget all the rest."
For an instant Helen felt a bolt of concern, but the warm water and Alain's fingers swept away any worries.
"You're getting lighter, lighter and lighter, Helene, just drifting away..."
Helene woke up as Yvette came through with the breakfast tray. Helene sat up in bed, the dent beside her was still warm from Alain's body. The last thing she remembered was being in the bath and she smiled as she thought of Alain carrying her to bed.
"Thank you Yvette." Helene said as the maid put down the tray.
"Madame." Yvette said demurely as she backed from the room.
Helene picked up the orange juice and downed it quickly, then took a sip of the black coffee, for some reason it tasted bitter, but she did love her coffee in the morning. She bit deep into a croissant, these were lovely, she munched away, as she lifted the newspaper and scanned the front page headlines.
Helene turned to the small hot pain-au-chocolat, another favourite of hers. Whatever Alain had done last night, had clearly done the trick, everything seemed to be right with the world and she thought of the day ahead. She fancied a top-to-toe at the salon, she could do with a manicure and pedicure if nothing else and see what colours in cosmetics Jeanette would recommend both for the Crete trip and for the Autumn. The Autumn? Why did that seem strange. Helene dismissed it quickly, she was looking forward to the day ahead too much to let anything worry her.
After a shower Helene went to the wardrobe, she was keen to wear a designer outfit. She selected a nice suede bustiere which she zipped straight on. Then she put on her stockings, nice and dark but sheer, before easing on the tight black leather skirt. It reached about halfway down her thighs. She like the way it hugged her bum and was taut between her legs. Soon she eased into the matching leather jacket. It was just long enough to crest her backside. Like the skirt, the leather was smooth and she liked its broad lapels and between them a plunging neckline even when the jacket was drawn together by its broad belt. Finally she eased on the boots, pulling them up to her knees, where she turned over the last few centimetres to form a cuff. Rising on to the stiletto heels of her black leather boots, Helene felt ready to face Dijon.
Helene walked into the garage and saw the silver Mercedes waiting for her. She had an urge to go to the right-hand door, but told herself, it was her driving, not Alain. She tossed her handbag on to the passenger seat and fired up the powerful engine. For an instant she reached for the gear stick with her left hand, but of course it was on the right. Maybe she needed another dose of Alain's treatment. The car sounded healthy and as she flicked the switch on the dashboard, the garage doors opened. In moments she was powering down the driveway, feeling the strength of the car and the freedom it brought her.
It was not long before Helene was walking to her beauticians. Alain had arranged it all in advance. She was going to have a relaxing session in their flotation tank, a massage and a manicure and pedicure and then it would be time for lunch with him at 'Papillion'. Helene walked into the large salon, gleaming white and buzzing with customers, successful women like herself.
"Madame Trenard." The camp man she knew as Simon, said extravagantly as she entered.
"Simon." Helene smiled.
Simon came round from behind the reception desk and Helene let him kiss her hand.
"It is so good to see you back. We have everything ready, the flotation tank is warmed up. Marie will show you through."
"Hello, Madame." A small Oriental woman appeared.
"Your new?"
"Yes, just three months, newly qualified. Have you been in one of the tanks before?"
"No."
"You'll love it."
Helene let herself be led to the changing room. She changed out of her clothes into a towelling robe. In minutes she was relaxing in the warm water, listening to the soothing music. She swept her hands along her body, pleased at its sleekness. Now she was feeling better, she ought to get back into her gym routine. They had a rowing machine, weights and a treadmill back at the house, but she liked the motivation from her trainer Pascal, she would have to call him up.
Helen cupped her breasts in her hands seeking out the platinum bars that sat in her nipples. As her fingers delicately ringed her breasts they felt strange, they certainly felt different to how she remembered. Carefully she made out the tiny ridges and knew she had had surgery. Her breasts had been augmented, whatever with did not have the rigidity of silicone, what was it? Soya? She could not remember. When had she had them done? That memory seemed to be missing. Maybe she had been more seriously injured in the accident than Alain had revealed. Anyway, they were a nice size, a comfortable handful, pert but not rigid, they looked womanly without seeming false. She let the matter slip from her mind. Soon Marie came to release her.
Helene lay on the massage table drifting away, looking forward to the holiday in Crete. She hated retsina, but ouzo was just like pastis, and she loved olives and the fish. It would be good, especially with Alain away from the distractions of work. All too quickly the massage was over and Helene was sat in a chair flicking through a magazine while Anne started the pedicure.
Helene turned the page, a large headline read 'Disappeared'. Below it outlined how many British people had gone missing in France, lost on holidays or business trips in the last twenty years. She looked through the faces each with a little story beneath each of them. The pictures were either family snaps or passport-style shots. The penultimate one in the second line caught Helene's eye. She read the story beneath it:
'Helen Jefferies, 26, businesswoman, last seen at a service station close to the German border, never made it to the hotel she had booked in Paris. Her car was found by police a month later burnt out in woodland close to Auxerre. No trace for nine months.'
The article went on to ask about the dangers British travellers faced in France and why so many had gone missing compared to other nationalities in the country. Helene's eyes kept coming back to the picture of Helen Jefferies. She wore large, old fashioned glasses and had rather straggly brown hair that hung around her face. She wore a fleece over her flat chest. Her nose too was rather large, but she did not seem that unattractive. Helene searched her mind. Had she met this woman? Maybe at a party or shopping. Her own English was not that good, maybe this British woman had asked the way. If she was a businesswoman her French might be good, but no, the article said she spoke no languages aside from English. London, it must be London, or Kent, one of those nice towns, when her and Alain had visited, Helene must have seen her, maybe even spoke to her, clearly she had made an impression somewhere in Helene's sub-consciousness. Helene shook her head, given how distant she had been in recent days, why had this one photograph dug so deeply into her thoughts? Then something shot through her, a realisation that she had been trying to put aside. She realised how wrong so much of what she had been doing over the past day had been. The tastes she did not like, the unusual sex, it was as if she had been programmed to like things that were alien to her. Helene tried to dismiss the thought as fantastical: how could someone have moulded her into another woman? How could Alain have done that so well? However, the more she thought the more it seemed to make sense, how everything seemed so vague, and Alain had admitted he was a hypnotist. How else did she explain how she was dressed, how she looked, her nose, her breasts, her eyes, all of that had to have been changed while she was in a trance? Helen Jefferies, she repeated the name, it seemed familiar, it seemed comfortable. Suddenly as she repeated it, it was as if a dam of memories had broken. She remembered the car crash, she remembered stuff before it, struggling to make the deal with the Germans, she remembered John, Alison, Liz at work, her family, her life back in Britain, not this alien existence Alain had shoved her into for his own reasons. Helen's heart raced as she wondered what to do. She had to find Alain and confront him.
Anne had finished her pedicure.
"Thank you." Helen said.
Anne looked at her strangely and Helen realised she had spoken in English, she dredged up the French word for thanks and said it in a poor accent, but it seemed enough.
Helen hurried to get dress. She felt reluctant to put on the leathers, that now seemed strange and uncomfortable, but she realised there was nothing else for her to wear. She wrapped the jacket tight around her, trying to cover her cleavage, and to think she had walked through the city dressed like that, she looked nothing different from a high-class call girl. The sooner she confronted Alain and got away, the better. The treatments went on her account, and Helen breezed out of the salon. The staff looked surprised at her now brusque manner, but said nothing.
Helen knew she had to drive to the restaurant and see Alain. Driving on the right was so difficult to someone who had done almost all their driving in Britain. As she headed towards the restaurant Helen realised her implanted memory of Dijon was fading fast, but by pulling over and speaking loudly at some French women she got directions to the 'Papillion'.
Helen parked the car carelessly. She stormed into the restaurant impatiently. It was almost empty and she saw Alain immediately. As she approached, he signalled for the food, and by the time she reached the table half a dozen fresh oysters waited for her.
Alain stood and kissed Helen as she came in. "You look great, I love that jacket, how was the salon?"
"Okay." Helen said in a surly voice, afraid to reveal that she was losing the last words of French she knew. Part of her was pleased as it meant her real personality was reasserting herself, but part of her was worried, she felt less confident challenging Alain.
Whilst hesitating what to do Helen took an oyster and poured it into her throat. It was foul, the taste and texture were disgusting. Helen looked away from the remaining oysters with distaste. The flavour of the first one pushed her to action. She pulled out the magazine she had taken from the salon from her bag and slapped it on the table.
"Alain." She said, the French pronunciation seeming strange.
"Yes." He looked up from his own oysters and smiled.
"This is all a game isn't it?" Helen spoke in English, she could feel her knowledge of the language flooding back.
"What?" His French accent now seemed harsh to Helen.
"This. I'm not your wife, I'm not Helene Trenard, I'm Helen Jefferies. Somehow you created me, you hypnotised me, you gave me some other woman's tastes: in food, cigarettes, clothes, booze, sex. But that's not me. You've kept me a prisoner nine months, while you shaped me into what you wanted."
Alain said nothing and wiped his mouth gently. "Yes." He said at last. "Helene Trenard was my wife, she died in a car crash in Morocco two years ago. It was in a remote part of the country. I was injured but managed to struggle back to get help. We travelled widely, so no-one asked questions when she did not turn up back here, but I found it hard to live without her, I was always looking for her in every crowded place. I managed to turn my efforts into my work. I had always had an interest in hypnosis and was convinced you could teach someone a language through it while they slept. Helene worked on that with me, so I had to carry it on. As you may have noticed, it works. The DGSE has shown an interest in it for their agents, I'll make enough to retire."
"So what has that got to do with me?"
"Well, I never gave up looking for Helene. When your car crashed just short of my land, I thought it must be fate. You were unconscious when I pulled you clear. When I found from your papers that your name was 'Helen' I knew you had been sent to me."
"But you could not leave me alone."
"I admit that. As you appeared you were hardly a woman to excite me, but your appearance was not too different to Helene's, maybe you were a little taller. I knew it would only take a little breast and nose surgery, laser treatment on your eyes and you could soon look like Helene. The sub-conscious French lessons took well and I found it easy to slip in many other suggestions. It was exciting, after starting cautiously I realised I could make you think and behave how Helene had done, you became as glamorous, as assured, as sexy as her. When you woke yesterday my dreams seemed to have been fulfilled."
"So what can you say to justify yourself? That is all you have, you were lonely, you missed your wife and what did you do? Kept me imprisoned, messed with my body, my mind. What did you make me do yesterday?"
Alain dismissed it with a gesture.
"How dare you? You pervert, making me do such things." Helen spat out the words.
"You British are so narrow-minded, so uptight."
"Ha! You bloody French are just perverts. I should have you arrested. You kidnapped me."
"You were hardly a prisoner, driving around in a luxury car, with credit cards in your purse."
Helen did not know what to say. She was furious, with Alain, with herself. She stood up and threw down her napkin. She stormed from the room.
"Helene, please." Alain's voice was plaintive, but Helen did not look back.
Outside the restaurant Helen walked blindly back to her car and got in. She accelerated away from the kerb, heading out of Dijon, with a rough idea that she had to get to Paris. As she left the city traffic behind her, she realised she had to think carefully. She was eager to get home, back to Britain, but she worried that Alain must be after her. He could call the police, saying she had stolen the car, she had to get rid of it. She pulled off the main road into the first town she came to with a railway station. She parked the car in a side street and walked away quickly.
As she passed shops Helen saw her reflection and realised she still wore the distinctive leathers. She had to get out of them and into something more mundane. She ducked into a department store and hurried around grabbing a pair of jeans, some plain white underwear and a sweatshirt. She quickly tried them on, no longer certain what the French sizes meant. The jeans fitted fine, but the bra and the sweatshirt strained to stretch over her larger breasts. She went out of the changing room and took some a couple of sizes larger without trying them on. She found a pair of cheap trainers that fitted and got a summer hat too. Not twenty minutes had passed since she had entered.
Outside Helen looked around, and saw a burger bar. She went in and ordered a coffee and took it to a table. As she sat sipping it, wishing it was tea, she realised she could not delay changing any longer and got away to the toilets. In minutes she re-emerged, the Frenchwoman in designer wear gone, replaced by an English tourist with too much shopping. Out on the street Helen felt less obvious. Not seeing a charity shop, feeling a bit guilty, she left the bag with the leathers and boots, plus the silk underwear she had put on that morning under a bench, and headed to the railway station. She emptied her handbag, there was enough cash in it to get home. There were Helene's credit cards too, but she dared not risk using them, she was sure Alain and his spy friends could easily track purchases using them. She bought a ticket to Paris from the machine and dropped the purse, the credit cards still inside, on the floor. She hoped some petty thief would find them and use them, muddying her own tracks.
It was only when Helen was sat on the train half-an-hour later that she breathed more easily, still, every time someone passed she looked up nervously making sure it was not Alain. However, no-one paid her any attention, and even the ticket conductor dismissed her clumsy French with a smile.
Arriving in Paris, Helen got help from the tourist office at the station and it was just a quick underground ride to the British embassy. She ran from the underground to the embassy building and she had arrived with twenty minutes of office hours left.
Helen was now impatient and ran into the embassy, ignoring the various queues and jogging through the metal detectors. She hurried to the reception desk.
"Good afternoon. How can I help?" The woman behind the desk asked coolly.
"I need to see someone, I'm Helen Jefferies. Helen Jefferies." She said her name again slowly.
The receptionist made no sign that it meant anything to her, but then one of the security guards came over and muttered something. The receptionist smiled, weakly disguising her surprise.
"Yes Miss. Jefferies, if you'd just take a seat over there, someone will be with you soon."
"Thank you." Helen said, feeling she had broken through the finishing line of her race. Now it would be alright. She walked over to the chair and sat down. In her mind she began polishing the story she had been creating on the train, how she had been kidnapped, mistaken identity she was sure, been held on some remote farm, no she had not seen their faces, they were rough, tied her up, but then let her go, near Dijon. She knew it would not stand up to too much scrutiny. She kept her hat on concealing her neatly cut hair and began scuffing her manicured nails on the wooden arm of the chair, and almost swore as she noticed the wedding and engagement rings. She wrenched at her finger before they came off, self-conscious that someone could see her. She shoved them into her jeans' pocket, and sat back smiling, tired but pleased with how decisive she had been. There was still the nose job, the laser eye surgery, the larger breasts, very generous kidnappers. Helen was certain people at the embassy would not know the difference, it would be when she finally got home that things would be a challenge, but at least she was back with her own mind, away from Alain Trenard and his deviant behaviour.
"Miss. Jefferies."
Helen was snapped out of her thoughts. She looked up to see a young man in a dark suit.
"Yes." Helen replied, standing.
"I'm Adrian Curtis. If you'll come with me, I'm sure you've got a story to tell."