Chapter 41: On Your Marks, Get Set...
A sharp clap from Julia silenced the murmuring women. The three waiters returned, no longer sticky and submissive, but moving with a new, purposeful authority. They carried a large, freestanding chalkboard, which they set up with a thud near the fireplace. A grid was already drawn upon it, with three columns labeled simply ‘1’, ‘2’, and ‘3’, and five rows for the upcoming games.
“Challengers,” Julia’s voice rang out, her gaze lifting to the cages. “You will be competing in a series of five tests. Skill, knowledge, and endurance will be measured. Scores will be awarded. The winner, the man with the highest cumulative score at the end, will be granted his release. He will be unshackled, unhooded, and allowed to depart this barn a free man.”
She let the words hang in the warm, thick air.
“The losers,” she continued, pacing slowly before them, her boots echoing on the wooden floor, “will remain for their punishment. The nature of which will be determined by the collective imagination of the Women’s Institute.”
A collective, eager sigh rippled through the women. Rupert’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a latex cage. Freedom. The word was a beacon, so bright it hurt. But the cost of failure was a yawning, dark unknown.
The waiters approached the cages. With a quiet, mechanical whir, the spheres were lowered until they rested just a few inches from the floor. The doors were unbolted and swung open. The sensation of solid ground under his feet was disorienting after so long suspended. Rupert stood on shaky legs, the plug within him a constant, reminding presence.
“Line up,” Julia commanded.
He stumbled into place between Paolo and Henry. He could feel the heat of their bodies, could hear the ragged sound of Henry’s breathing.
“The first competition is a test of intimacy,” Julia announced. She gestured, and one of the waiters brought forward a small wooden tray. On it lay five pairs of women’s panties, each a different shade of lace and silk, neatly folded. “These have been generously provided by five of our members. Each of you will be given the opportunity to smell them. You must identify which pair belongs to your wife. A correct guess earns you five points.”
Rupert’s mind went blank. Margot’s underwear? He sorted the laundry every Sunday, a mindless domestic chore. He knew the practical cotton ones, the sensible briefs. But the secret, delicate things she wore beneath her WI tweeds? He realized with a jolt that he hadn’t truly looked, hadn’t truly known, in years.
“Contestant Number One. Step forward.”
Paolo, with a confidence that seemed to radiate from him, stepped up. The waiter held the tray before his hooded face. Paolo inhaled deeply at each pair, his head moving with a connoisseur’s deliberation. He paused at the third, a fiery red scalloped lace, and gave a slight, knowing nod. “That one. Dolores. She wears this set when she is feeling particularly… passionate.”
“Correct,” Julia said, and a waiter made a crisp chalk mark in Paolo’s column. A smattering of applause and a throaty laugh from Dolores echoed in the barn.
“Contestant Number Two.”
Henry shuffled forward. He sniffed the first pair, then the second, his movements jerky with panic. He seemed to be trying to recall a scent buried under decades of marital routine. He pointed a trembling finger at a sensible beige pair. “Elizabeth? She… she prefers comfort.”
“Incorrect,” Julia stated, her voice flat. No mark was made. Henry’s shoulders slumped as a titter of laughter ran through the room. Elizabeth sighed audibly, a sound of profound disappointment.
“Contestant Number Three.”
Rupert’s legs felt like water. He moved to the tray. The waiter held it up.
The first pair was black, sleek, and sophisticated. It smelled of a sharp, expensive perfume. Not Margot. The second was a floral print, smelling faintly of talcum powder and roses. Agnes, perhaps. The third was a simple white cotton, smelling of clean laundry. His heart sank. He didn’t know. He brought his hooded face closer to the fourth pair. They were a deep plum colour, made of a soft, sheer silk. He inhaled.
And there it was. Beneath the faint, generic scent of lavender fabric softener, was her. The warm, familiar fragrance of her skin, a hint of the fig and vanilla lotion she used, and something else, something uniquely, essentially Margot. It was a scent from the nape of her neck, from the warm space between her breasts when he used to hold her close. A scent he had forgotten he knew.
A wave of longing, sharp and painful, washed over him. This wasn't just about underwear; it was a scent-memory of intimacy lost.
He pointed a finger, his hand surprisingly steady. “Those. The plum ones. They’re Margot’s.”
“Correct,” Julia said.
The chalk scratched on the board. Five points. Relief, warm and dizzying, flooded through him. He heard Margot’s delighted gasp, followed by her whispering to Brenda, “He remembered! The ones I wore for our anniversary in Paris!”
He had forgotten the anniversary. But he had remembered the scent.
He stepped back into line, his body thrumming with a strange new energy. He had passed the first test. He had a chance.
Julia smiled, a slow, predatory expression. “An encouraging start for some. But do not become complacent. The games have only just begun."