Her Master's Voice Read Online Free PDF Page B

taxi?” Ranji did not listen to her.
    Sherry resigned herself to another lesson and went to shower and change. She dressed as Ranji had taught her to dress, slowly and with care. She patted herself dry and stood powdering her skin under the ceiling fan. Dry and silky, she started with jewellery. Gold pendants for her ears because Ranji held that men love to see them swinging as her flute-playing became more emotional. Filigree gold cross low in her cleavage because that too would swing as she moved, and it was a cross because Ranji said Asian men invariably loved blonde European Christian women. Just associating with them would give any man a lift, no matter how important he was. Three gold hoop bracelets (Ranji would have liked more but Sherry had refused) and her dress wrist watch. She had accepted a discreet slave chain at her ankle.
    She sat in front of the mirror and ran a comb through her hair. Still growing, but a long way to go. As it was now, not even touching her shoulders, she still could not hold it back in a ponytail or a roll. The hairdresser had worked on it, but even she could not make it grow faster. Still, what there was looked good, and Ranji especially liked her colour and the way it swung onto her cheek as she bobbed her head.
    They had arrived at her make-up scheme during a bad-tempered session at the beauty salon. Sherry had sat mute while the black-haired Singapore Chinese beautician had argued with the equally black-haired but far more colourful Ranji. The beautician wanted understatement and Ranji seemed to favour something out of a Bollywood movie. They had settled on a model from an outdated Cosmopolitan , exaggerated a little to please Ranji. Ice blue shadow and strong pink lips. Now she had grown used to it, the make-up felt like her other personality. She found she enjoyed the feeling of slipping on a tarty character and going out into Singapore in disguise.
    She paused to ring for a taxi, and went to her wardrobe. Ranji had stood over her while she bought three versions of what English ladies should wear. At least, what Ranji thought they should wear. Light, string-strapped summer frocks with subdued floral prints, timeless, Liberty’s, completely proper. Ranji had shortened them, of course, saying that even in Singapore nobody wore knee-length skirts. Sherry pulled a dress from the rail and slipped it over her naked body. That was the other thing. Although Ranji might wear a bra to confine her own generous breasts, she permitted Sherry nothing at all. Not even panties. She had complained bitterly but Ranji folded her arms and looked as unyielding as granite. No underwear. “It will make you feel more like a proper woman,” she had said. “You won’t stop thinking of your sexiness, and that is good for you. Every time you move, you will feel sexy.”
    She had been right, of course. The first few times Sherry had left the house without her bra and panties, she had felt terribly naked, as if every passerby on the street could see her breasts and more. She had been terrified of discovery, and yes, she had felt sexy too. Every time she hurried, or stepped onto a bus, or felt the wind blow, she had been reminded of her secret nakedness. Now she was used to it; now she felt normal dressed like that. Squeezing into a crowded bus or tapping quickly down steps no longer frightened her. When she had mentioned the change in her feelings to Ranji, she had clapped her hands and giggled. “Now I know you are learning correctly. Papi Bombar will be so pleased, I must tell him. You are not feeling so sexy now because you are sexy. You are changing, Sherry, and it is very good!”
    She slipped into heeled sandals and stood in front of the mirror with approval. She knew she looked good. She smiled and swung her hips to make her skirts twirl. She looked desirable, but the pricking thought that she had been having more frequently came again, what would Tim think if he could see her now?
    Ranji waited for her