This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Justine.
You are going to have to be patient with this one. There’s a slow build-up.
Southern France— Decision Day minus 10
But now here was Stephan— Sir Stephen, seemingly with something to suggest to her. He’d found her at the pool— the children had gone, and she had the day free. She was in one of her skimpier bikinis, working on her tan, and as he approached she was very conscious of how much flesh she had on show— looked around her for the crochet mini-robe that added at least a little mystery, but realised she hadn’t brought it, and knew she would just have to make the best of it. He was as courteous as ever— and while she knew he had registered her breasts, her thighs, her trim waist, he didn’t make her uncomfortable— in fact, she found it hard not to try a little move or two on him (she’d watched the sluttier waitresses at it all summer).
Picture: Justine in her bikini
If he noticed this, he gave no sign of it.
He had come with an offer.
A small group would be working together on a major proposal for a Dubai investment vehicle— a whole new city, he seemed to be saying— they would stay in a villa about 60 km away, for at least 2 weeks. It was very hush-hush. No families, just the seven principals and a small, handpicked staff, who could all be trusted.
“We want you, Justine, to be the in-room servant— the most trusted of all— the only one allowed to come and go during the conversations. The pay is excellent (he mentioned a sum which astonished Justine), and you will be ‘on duty’ only for 5 hours a day— the rest of your time is free— although for security reasons you will have to stay at the villa at all times— no going off to meet boys in town, I’m afraid!”
Ten minutes later, she had agreed— without having really considered the option of declining— he was just too friendly, too certain that this would be right for her, too persuasive about how she was the only real choice for the job. And she was eager, she discovered, to be with him.
She was to travel with him— he’d already agreed everything with her current employers. They would stop at the nearby town and organise her uniform— hadn’t he said? Silly of him— yes, part of the arrangements; all staff were to wear distinctive uniforms so that the security personnel could have an easy life— even off duty. No, she wouldn’t wear any of her own things— everything would be provided. Yes, it was all a little ridiculous, but these security firms— they had become very professional and assertive since the Iraq war and all the other outrages…
An hour later, they were in the car, within an hour she was being measured in the sort of small and very traditional establishment that only exist any more in old towns in areas where the wealthy congregate— an outfitter for domestic servants.
Measuring done, the stuffy old patronne had dismissed her with a sniff, and she was listlessly reading a magazine in the showroom when Sir Stephen reappeared to tell her they were going to lunch at the restaurant in the old town.
The place had two Michelin stars, and her head was beginning to spin as the meal (elegant and delicious, but hardly over generous as regards quantity) seemed to come in at over €600, but Sir Stephen didn’t bat an eyelid. It seemed she had moved up a tier— from the ‘family’ class to the ‘principals’ class— and as if money was no object.
Back at the outfitters, two hours later, after a wonderfully wide-ranging conversation with Sir Stephen— a joy after a summer of inconsequentialities and— she realised with a rush while she was talking to him, both intense loneliness and a shockingly strong buildup of sexual need, there was another large sum; the bill (which had already been paid, she was simply to take the paperwork) was closer to €5000 than €4000— for clothes she would only wear over a few weeks!
Shyly, she asked la patronne if she might use a changing room— Stephen had told Justine that she was to wear the new outfit immediately.
“You’re better changing here— the security people were setting up this morning— we must play by their rules— they are a mix of ex Mossad and Spetznatz types— boringly serious and utterly without humour.”
There was nothing to do but comply, which meant that, fifteen minutes later, blushing and feeling decidedly odd about it— despite her many afternoons and evenings in similar garb this summer— she walked out of the shop to where he was waiting in his chauffeur driven car in a maid’s uniform— a very well-fitted but rather skimpy maid’s uniform. Very stylish, perfectly respectable, it nevertheless clearly invited sexual appraisal— and as a former dancer and model, Justine knew just how to set it off to advantage, and found it hard not to walk so as to make herself at the least elegant, even if she was not in the least attempting to seduce (embarrassed and fascinated by even the idea that she might be).
You might assume that, though dancing and modeling, Justine might long ago have lost all personal embarrassment about sexually attractive costume, body language and public display, but the truth is that this was far from the case. She had always felt the collision of these to be extremely powerful in their effect upon her. It was only ‘on stage’— in a purposeful setting, with a part to play, that she had been able to carry this off. And in fact this was why she was in such demand as a model, by those art directors who understood the nervousness and the vulnerability that she displayed when asked to make overt sexual allure part of her pose, and appreciated it. The discomfort and tension around all of this was the main reason she had been pleased to step away from that work.
Picture: Justine the maid
Justine felt quite odd, getting into the car with Sir Stephen, in the new outfit— the chauffeur had held the door for her earlier, but now seemed not to feel the need to do so for another domestique — and she was suddenly unsure about her relationship with Sir Stephen.
Perhaps she was no longer a ‘principal’, but in fact a ‘servant’? Of course— she was a servant— that was the job. But wasn’t he a friend? It was too confusing, and she became tongue tied and unsure of herself; hesitated, flustered, blushing.
He laughed— entirely friendly, understanding, laughing with her more than at her, at the ridiculousness of it all, the obviousness of the outfit— “it is the same for all the staff”.
“I have to say, Justine, that, nonsense though it is, I can’t say that this uniform idea will upset many of the others. You look good enough to eat, I must say! You have grown to become a very attractive young woman, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Even without obvious intent beyond the conversational, this made her blush, her lips twisting in a shy smile. It was the first time that Stephen had ever said anything which even suggested any hint of sexual potential between them, and she was mortified— her late night thoughts must not be known to him— not even guessed at! He was making no overtures at all, but she felt it, could not evade the feelings which moved in her loins, which cramped her chest, constricted her throat.
She was squirming with embarrassment, and he laughed at her, mildly patronising;
“My child, you are shy— forgive me! Most ungallant. A simple— and well deserved— compliment, my dear. However, in a way, you make a point. To avoid questions, I suggest that you might be more appropriately seated on this … ah, that’s it!”
He had pulled out a folding perch seat from the bulkhead to the driver’s compartment, indicating it as the seat he suggested she occupy.
She didn’t understand— it wasn’t the thought of sitting next to him that embarrassed her, still less the idea that anyone might get the wrong idea about their relationship— no, it was the experience of him looking at her as a sexual being, a woman, a nubile female, when she has had those … those fantasies, about him— and this seating arrangement meant that he would be looking directly at her, in her suggestive uniform, for the whole journey (even if she was looking away, or had her eyes closed, she would be imagining that he was looking at her).
It was impossible to even try to explain this, though, and so she made herself smile, arranged herself on the little padded platform.
It turned out to be very awkward indeed. The seat— more accurately described as a small padded shelf— was rather low, while the skirts, while not really short, ended well above the knee. With her knees unavoidably pushed well above her waist through the lowness of the perch, and the high heels of the elegant black shoes, the question as to how to arrange her legs so that she was not offering a view of stocking tops was one which she could not easily resolve. Neither crossing her legs nor holding her knees together seemed to work, and neither were comfortable, so she kept having to change position, which only drew attention to her legs. The next thirty minutes were not relaxing at all.
Pictures: Justine in the car, awkward
The makers of the car, a venerable and famous institution, would be horrified— the perch seat is a factory fitted option, originally at a much more normal height. Its adjusted, low position is deliberate, intended to produce just the sort of uncomfortable ride Justine was experiencing— and just the views she was trying so hard not to offer.
It made it a little easier that Sir Stephen seemed blithely unaware of her awkwardness, pointing out interesting aspects of the countryside as they drove (it was getting greener and hillier than the typical Provençal countryside, the car climbing most of the time, before rapidly plunging into deep, cool valleys), but Justine was feeling unusually flustered and unsure of herself as the car pulled to a halt in front of a chateau, impressive somehow, despite being rather austere in its styling, and of modest size, compared to some they had seen en route. Sir Stephen, with a friendly nod, and a quiet word to the effect that he had enjoyed their journey, said that he had business to attend to, that he hoped she enjoyed her stay, then without waiting for a response, simply turned and set off up the entrance stairs, Justine had made to follow, but the chauffeur had touched her arm;
“Servant’s entrance for us in uniform, Mams’elle”
Sir Stephen didn’t turn his head, and after a moment’s confusion, Justine realised that she was, from now on, very clearly, a servant— a servant of very rich, very serious people, and that she was going to be ignored by them, as fitted her station. So much for ‘principals’ class. It was as if she had been taught a very obvious lesson.
She was blushing, hot, ashamed of herself, embarrassed by her stupidity in not realising this before, humiliated, but of course it was all her fault; she had presumed too much, overthinking everything as usual; they are paying me very well, remember?.
The chauffeur’s French was heavily accented, with Slavic vowel sounds. She turned, indicating that she understood, accepted. He had her big suitcase and day bag, as well as the small case of new clothes, and insisted on carrying it all for her as he led her around the side of the facade to some steps, leading down to a basement yard, from which a door which opened into a sort of lobby giving access into a large kitchen; low ceilinged, dark and cool, very plain, very old-fashioned, everything large, heavy, simple, worn smooth from long usage. He indicated a bench;
“Please to wait here until Mme. Creux comes for you— I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Then he disappeared with her own luggage, leaving her with only the new bag. At which point everything had collapsed into ordinariness. It was a job, not a fairytale.
Mme. Creux was efficient, brusque, professional; she explained Justine’s duties, her hours, she showed her the areas of the house she was expected to access (making it clear that all else was out-of-bounds), where her small, spartan room was, made it very clear that she was utterly uninterested in Justine as a person, only concerned to have her play her part in a functional machine, designed to keep the six principals from even noticing that any effort at all was required to make the basics of life luxurious— and beyond that, to remain invisible.
Justine was asked for her purse— which contained her ‘phone, her passport, her cards, her makeup.
“You won’t need these here. They will be kept safe for you. If you wish to contact anyone, you will ask me; there is a computer; you may email, Mme. Danika will read everything you write before it is sent. That is how it is.”
It was noticeable that her own bags were not delivered to the tiny room in the attic floor that she was allocated— just the new case. She wanted to ask Mme. Creux about her stuff, but somehow it was impossible to bring the subject up, to say anything, really, apart from ‘Oui, Madame’.
She had been in her room for only ten minutes, hardly begun to unpack the little case, to discover what she had been provided with, when Mme. Creux had reappeared, the only warning being the sound of her hard little shoes on the steep attic staircase. She entered directly, walking straight into the small room without knocking.
She stood for a moment, looking everywhere, her eyes flitting rapidly here and there, then;
“Ch!”
It was a small noise, but held a volume of disrespect and disapproval, very definitely intended to convey to Justine that she was both on probation and doing rather poorly.
Justine had moved the hard little stool to beneath the window, in order to discover if there was a view from the little oval window, set quite high in the wall, well above head height, so that the room felt like an austere little cell, like the ones she had seen in a tour of a mediaeval nunnery (there was a view and it was quite lovely).
Mme. Creux, very deliberately, without a word, took the stool and placed it back in its original position, below a small, old mirror, part hazed-over, and put back onto it the little enamel washbasin.
It was clear that the room was hers, not Justine’s; equally clearly, the view was not something Justine had any right to experience, still less should she change any arrangements.
Only then did Mme. Creux look up at Justine, then, very deliberately, at the bed, where the case had spilled its contents;
“Ch!”
Again, strong but controlled disapproval;
“You will keep these things, which have been so kindly provided for you, and at great expense, with the utmost care; they are not yours. Nothing here is yours. You have nothing, and to all intents, you are nothing. You are to respect everything, disrupt nothing, obey your Patronne and her guests, obey me and the other staff. You will cause no disturbance, attract no undue attention; give every pleasure and service it is in your power to give and let it be seen that you are humbly grateful for any attentions you do receive— tu comprends, fillette Anglais?.”
Her use of the familiar tu, the diminutive, and the emphasis placed on the fact that Justine was foreign, were all clearly calculated, and Justine’s mood, already lowered by the relegation to servant status after her car ride with Sir Stephen, bleakened further. She was to know her place, obviously very much at the bottom, and, too, know that Mme. Creux, servant as she might be, was far, far above Justine.
She calmed herself over the next hours, reminding herself of the pay, of the short hours, the short duration of her engagement, of the beautiful garden (some parts of which she was permitted to use, including the pool), of the benefits of the enforced isolation and ‘digital detox’ to her attention in getting through her reading list.
She just had to think of it as a job; any ideas she had had about glamour, or feeling part of something important, of having a part to play, must all be recognised as having been childish fantasy.
Since her duties would not start until the next morning, at a very civilised 10am, Justine took herself to the pool (a rather austere swimsuit had been included with the new outfits, as well as some rather elegant, if simple black underwear).
Having calmed herself with some vigorous swimming, warmed herself in the sun, she changed and went to the small staff room, but was quickly driven away by the extreme ugly banality of the room, its ugly 1970s furniture, a small ancient TV with glaring colours, seemingly stuck at a channel playing ludicrous and incomprehensible spanish and italian soaps (strange how the French had the reputation of being sophisticated and elegant, when in reality their houses, clothes and food were ugly and simple, once you were outside the major cities).
Back in her room, she spent a silly amount of time organising the few clothes that had been provided— two identical uniforms, complete with white frilly choker and cap, nylon stockings, mary-jane black leather sandals with heels, along with the underthings.
She lay down, thinking to rest, then jumped up again, realising just how likely she was to crease the uniform— which Mme. Creux had expressly warned her not to. She took it off, then realised that she had nothing else— no tee shirt or pyjamas. She lay down in her underwear; towards the end of summer, the stone walls were still cool, but not unpleasantly so.
Rather than dozing, though, her mind was full of the events of the morning, the trip, as she realised with a soft shock that in a few short hours, she had been spirited away from her job, her clothes, all her stuff, even her clothes and passport taken from her; brought to this isolated place whose address she did not know (even the name of the town with the outfitters had not lodged in her memory).
If it hadn’t been Stefan who had brought her here, she might have become worried, but since it had been him, it was simply strange. Why grump or worry about it? She’d had almost no spontaneity in her life, let alone in such interesting circumstances. She should be excited!
She jumped up again, pushed the stool back under the window and looked out.
It was like being a princess, locked away in a remote castle. Sir Stephen was hardly an ogre, but she could cast him in the role of the Baron who had captured her, who wanted to marry her, who wanted her young body…
She lay down this time, on her face, the pillow under her, bunched between her legs, her breathing getting slow and heavy as her hips moved, as a fantasy built in her mind about Sir Stephen pressing himself upon her, making it harder every day to say no, until … until…
And then, once again, she was upright, scrambling to jump out of bed— there were footsteps sounding on the steep wooden stairs which led to the attic corridor where her room was— Mme. Creux? Someone else? No lock on the door— they might just walk in! Although perhaps her cheeks might be a little pink, there was nothing to show what had been in her mind, but she was in her underwear, and she felt horribly vulnerable as she jumped to put the stool back in its allotted place, straightening up just as, not Mme. Creux, but a man opened the door, wearing the same uniform as the driver.
Automatically, Justine’s hands flew to cover her body— one across her breasts, one at her groin— ridiculous! the underwear covered more than her bikini!
But there was something about a strange man being in her bedroom, having been doing what she had been doing, which made it impossible to be anything but stupidly flustered— compounded by the way her own frightened actions had called attention to her vulnerability.
“It is requested that you are downstairs in fifteen minutes to be presented to the bosses.”
If he was interested in her body, his face, his eyes didn’t betray it, which only made the ruthless certainty which radiated from him more disturbing, frightening her; she sighed with relief when he turned and left, without waiting for an acknowledgement of what was obviously a non-negotiable order.
Getting into the maid’s costume withut help took a while, and she was flustered again as she rushed down the stairs, trying to remember the layout of the house, not sure where she was to be.
Mme. Creux met her at the bottom of the servant’s stair, took her wrist in a harsh pincer grip and stopped her, dead; forced her to do a slow turn, tutting and pulling at Justine until the imperfections in her appearance had been adjusted.
“The mirror in your room is there for a purpose, fillette. Use it. Do not show yourself again in such a state.”
The grip at her wrist turned into a twist, clearly intended as punishment, and Justine gasped, shocked. affronted. But before she could react (later, she wondered if she would have ever had the nerve to protest— she had certainly not protested since, and had her ballet teachers not often been deliberately cruel? Her cello teacher, too— and had she not accepted those cruelties, also, as simply the price she paid for having their attention? Perhaps she had always been made to be treated so despicably, to be cruelly disrespected, robbed of her dignity, yet expected to perform to perfection? Had she deserved this? Was this why she felt so helplessly enmeshed, so passive, in the face even of atrocities committed upon her, terrible exploitations of her weakness, her pathetic willingness to please, her submissive response to the greedy, appalling demands made of her?).
In any event, Mme. Creux twisted again, so that Justine was obliged to fold her arm up behind her— that or throw herself to the floor, such was the stress that was imposed at her shoulder— and, finding herself again unable to muster any strength to object, she was propelled along the service corridor and into the main hallway— the ceiling far above, shadowed above the grand staircase, facing imposing double doors.
After a knock, a wait, an imperious Entrez!, Mme. Creux opened the door and ushered Justine into a large and luxuriously appointed grande-salon, elegantly furnished with dark and solid antiques, where her new employers sat in a rough circle, around a large low table, strewn with papers, laptops, plates of sweetmeats and fruit, glasses, decanters— evidently the the aftermath of a working session.
If the room was almost overwhelmingly grand, this was more or less as expected. What was not expected, what made Justine’s belly clench was that she recognised several of the people around the table, and that their faces generated strong emotions in her.
Seated at the table were; the father who had propositioned her, an oriental woman who had bullied her when she was waitressing, had almost reduced her to tears, a man who had put his hand on her breasts from behind at another party. Along with Sir Stephen, that made four out of the six who she already knew by sight. The other two were a handsome, inscrutable woman at the head of the table, looking at her without expression, and an enormously fat man in an arab robe.
They were all looking at her, and she was transfixed, unable to process, Sir Stephen’s words from the car coming back to her; I can’t say that this uniform idea will upset many of the others. You look good enough to eat.
What was going on? It made no difference— she was as if frozen, as Mme. Creux introduced her;
“La nouvelle bonne de salon, Messieurs’dames. Une fillette Anglais.”
The housekeeper pinched at Justine’s upper arm, hard;
“Faire ta révérence, fillette! Dépêche toi!”
And Justine found herself curtsying, pulling at the already short skirts, bending one of her knees— doing it elegantly, as a dancer would, but feeling very uncomfortable about it. Nowhere had she been required to observe such old-fashioned servant behaviour— even at the stuffiest of the parties.
Picture: Justine curtsies
And then it was all over— Mme. Creux was pushing her from the salon, ordering her back to her own room until it was time for the servant’s hall meal.
Read the next part of Justine.
