New Animal Ella Baxter (best books to read non fiction txt) 📖

the training session is over. I’m grateful for her time, and I wonder if it would be appropriate to give her some cash. I’m not sure if she volunteers, or if hers is a paid position. I think I have a twenty in my bag, so I open it and rummage around while she looks at me steadily.

‘How about you go and buy yourself something nice to wear, there’s a place in town you could try. I’ll give you their card before you leave,’ she says, ‘and then come back in a couple of hours and we’ll have someone for you to play with.’ Her voice softens. ‘You need to change, and I’m not just talking about your appearance. Create a “Mistress Amelia”, then put this girl’—she touches my arm—‘to rest.’

I nod. Yes. That’s what I need. I need to put this girl to rest.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The window display for The Marquis—where Tanya recommended I come—features two intricate leather horse masks, each suspended on a silver chain, in front of a dark silk curtain. What are the odds? I had pictured myself as a warrior on a horse, and now here I am standing in front of a couple of masks that are so expertly sewn, their flat teeth look real. Even their equine eyes seem to follow me as I enter the shop.

‘You would be a large, because of all that hair,’ the saleswoman says as I pause by the doorway to peer more closely at the horse masks.

‘Thank you,’ I say, while patting it down.

Steeping further inside, I find myself surrounded by tall glass cases in which are displayed metal clasps and plugs, handcuffs and lubricants. The shop smells of Dettol and the air conditioning is cool; I’m reminded of a hospital ward. Pink Floyd wails from the speakers behind the counter, and I tap along to it, while moving through the display cases of dildos, which are lit from below, making each one look like an overfed, phosphorescent worm.

‘I’m about to do some workshops with the Widow Maker, but I don’t know what to wear.’

The saleswoman rests her elbows on the counter and looks me over.

‘You’ll need a decoy, then a reveal,’ she advises. ‘Like a latex dress, for instance. That’s the decoy, because they think it’s your outfit, but then you snap it off and underneath are nipple clamps. That’s the reveal.’ She gestures. ‘Try the rack over there—a catsuit might be good on you. It has a high neck that you can tuck your mask into.’

There’s a range of costumes hanging on the rack. I flick through them until I get to a glazed-looking bodysuit. I slide my hand down the length of it, letting the friction create an uncomfortable squeak. The saleswoman takes a spirited step out from behind the counter and pulls a rubber suit from a different rack. It looks similar to a wetsuit, with a thick zipper from the crotch to the neck.

‘This is much thicker.’ She flaps the suit at me. ‘It will change your life.’

I check the price and lean away.

‘A full piece in this density of rubber is like another skin. When I wear this, I feel really evened out and confident. Like I have a new body.’

‘A new body,’ I repeat quietly. I reach out and take the suit from her.

‘Is that the level of intensity you want?’ she asks.

‘Of course,’ I say, ‘that is exactly the sort of intensity I’m after. It would be amazing to feel like someone else entirely. Do you go to clubs in this?’ I ask, still staring at the rubber skin.

‘No, I just put it on at home. I do this thing where I coat it in cold Vaseline that I keep in the fridge, then I get my boyfriend to chase me around the apartment—but he can’t catch me, because I’m so slippery. It’s a phenomenal feeling.’

‘Why cold?’

‘It’s just another layer away from what I usually feel, isn’t it? Similar to what you were saying, I want to feel cold and fast, because I always feel warm and slow. Sometimes, I even wear just a little bit of rubber to work so I can bring some of that confidence here with me.’ She snaps at something tight under her loose shirt.

I leave the store with a horse head, the rubber skin, a leotard and a fishnet body stocking. On my way back to the car I stop by a brightly lit fast food restaurant and sit at a stool in the window, eating my way through a box of chicken nuggets. As I’m looking out the window at the lunchtime crowd, my phone dings with a message.

Vincent. You should have been here.

I slam my phone down onto the bench and then immediately pick it up again to reply: You shouldn’t have written that.

I reach down to the bag at my feet and pull out the rubber bodysuit, draping it across my lap. I need to be thicker-skinned.

I eat another nugget and wait to see if the rubber will protect me from the guilt.

Imagine telling me I should have been there. Imagine being so self-centred that all you can think about is what you’re going through.

I scroll through Simon’s social media pages to see whether he has posted any pictures of the funeral. There’s nothing so far.

I close my eyes for a moment to see whether the suit has helped, and I do feel that the guilt is bearable. I place a hand between the two pieces of rubber, and after a few minutes I feel confident enough to ring Simon.

‘Amelia?’ His voice is low.

‘You sound terrible,’ I say, gripping the suit.

‘When are you coming back?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘We needed you here,’ he says emphatically.

I pull away and turn down the volume on my phone.

‘How was the funeral?’ I ask.

‘Awful. Vincent threw himself on her coffin and ate one of the roses.’

‘Did Judy get the pinkie ring and the watch, like I asked?’

‘Is that what you want