Read In Too Deep for Free Online Page A

were brought down to a common denominator if one
thought of them stripped. She'd started doing this at school, even
the headmaster reduced to insignificance when she imagined him with
a bare bottom, sagging balls and a three-inch dick.
    She smiled as
she looked around her, playing this interesting game. Everyone
seemed to be talking at once and she caught several different
languages. Background music drifted from overhead speakers, only
slightly more upmarket than that used in food stores - a
compilation of popular classics. Arlene roamed the stalls, a
sensual tingle running up her arm as she handled the swatches of
slippery satin, responding to the texture of plush, the misty
transparency of chiffon or leopard print georgette. Her breath
shortened, her heart thumped and the excitement she had experienced
on entering was now visceral in its intensity. She yearned to find
a man, or maybe a woman - Arlene was bi-sexual - drag them into the
nearest washroom and screw them legless.
    From these
samples she longed to create the wildest, most fantastic outfits.
This is what she had always wanted to do; use material as a painter
uses palette and brushes, though she produced living works of art
to be touched and worn, lived in, fucked in, instead of sterile
canvas and paint.
    She selected a
hanger and took it to the agent's table, a suave lady wearing a
tailored two-piece and a patronising air, her thickly gelled hair
swept high.
    'Excuse me,'
Arlene said briskly, glad that she was taller than the woman, an
impressive five-nine in her high-heeled cowboy boots. These
complemented the American Indian theme of her outfit; suede
wraparound skirt with fringes, brief top trimmed with peacock
feathers, hand-painted wooden bead necklace, each item made by her
own clever fingers.
    'Can I help
you?' the agent asked, staring at her with flinty eyes, the lids
coated with blue shadow, the lashes spiky with mascara.
    Arlene
returned the frosty glare. 'I want to order samples of this,' and
she held out a length of gold embroidered silk bearing the logo of
the Parisian manufacturer represented by the agent.
    'You have a
business card?' the woman enquired loftily.
    'Of
course.'
    When Arlene
produced it the agent took it between the tips of her manicured
fingers, glancing down disdainfully as she read, '"Arlene Murphy.
Dress Designer. Pattern Maker. Garment Technologist." I can't say
I've heard of you, Miss Murphy.'
    'No?' Arlene
retorted, her hackles rising, her colour too. 'And where have you
been hiding? You're out of touch. How much is that fabric per
metre?'
    'One hundred
and fifty pounds.'
    Arlene gulped,
but replied with regal unconcern, 'Can you send me sample
lengths?'
    With a curl of
her cherry-red lips the agent said loudly, 'Oh, no, that's not our
policy. But we'll send you out the set if you inform us when you
have a prospective buyer.'
    'Thank you,
you'll be hearing from me in a few days,' Arlene lied, wrote down
the details and replaced the hanger, then strolled away.
    The truth was
that she was strapped for cash. Oh yes, her star was in the
ascendant, but she needed that lucky break which happens in the
best movies when the heroine is discovered by some influential
person and shoots to the top. She managed to keep body and soul
together, just about, and knew she'd been fortunate to live with
her friend, Julia Jones. Julia was hard up too, struggling to make
it in journalism. Arlene wished she was at the show, but she'd gone
dashing off on some adventurous escapade with Will Denton, being
very mysterious and hush-hush. Arlene hoped she'd take care,
worrying about her. Julia wasn't in the least bit streetwise and
one needed to be in this day and age.
    She supposed
it all came down to Julia losing her parents in a tragic plane
accident and being brought up by an elderly aunt. Her life had been
sheltered. She'd lived with the aunt in the house she and Arlene
now occupied, and had gone to a private school down the road, as a
daygirl, not a