Masquerade

Six

‘Dress sexy,’ he tells me on the phone.

So I wear the white hot pants that I bought in Thailand, black boots and a red top. When I open the door he whistles, his eyes roving my body. ‘You totally nailed sexy,’ he says.

‘Is he dead yet?’

He chuckles. ‘Nearly. He will be by tonight.’

I giggle. ‘Good, I like stiff things.’

He takes my hand and puts it on his crotch. He is already as hard as a board.

‘He’ll do,’ I approve.

‘He’d better.’

He touches my hair. ‘What color is this?’

‘Teal.’

‘Teal,’ he says softly. ‘You’re the only girl I know who could carry off teal.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘You’re very, very unique, Billie.’

I warm up nicely with the compliment. ‘You’re pretty unique yourself.’

He laughs. ‘Did it hurt?’

‘What?’

‘To throw in that little compliment?’

‘Not at all. I’m a very good liar.’ I grin at him.

He grins back. There is something soft in his eyes. It is the way a parent might look at their child. Indulgently. With pride. It confuses me.

‘Shall we go?’ I say, shrugging into a light coat.

He takes me to a fabulously extravagant subterranean cabaret club in Aldwych, called Voltaire.  A set of neon lights points downwards. We go down gleaming aqua steps illuminated by thread lighting embedded in every step.

‘Voltaire,’ he says, ‘used to be a public toilet.’

‘Great. You’re taking me to a public toilet for our first date. Very unconventional.’

An enormous bouncer shakes Jaron’s hand and opens a bright blue door.

Public toilet it may have once been, but it is now lavish, decadent, and a lot risqué. There is not a bright light, shiny surface, tourist, or cashmere sweater in sight. Instead there are gorgeous fallen angels (waitresses and bar staff with wings) buzzing about serving sophisticated, quirky people.

It made for an edgy, unusual atmosphere.

‘Well done. It is actually the perfect location for an illicit affair,’ I say with a smile.

He smiles back, a heart-melting smile. ‘It always reminds me of scenes from Berlin movie stills of underground clubs from the thirties.’

‘I love it,’ I say and squeeze his hand.

‘I’ve booked a table but let’s have a drink at the bar first.’

Jaron orders a champagne cocktail and I get myself a fluid called The Control Word Is Voltaire. It is unquestionably potent and it makes me buzz almost immediately. I twist on my kiss me/lick me bar stool and, facing Jaron, cross my legs. His eyes drop to my thighs.

‘So,’ I say, and pause until he brings his eyes back to mine. ‘What’s Ebony up to tonight?’

‘No idea,’ he says with a careless shrug.

‘Don’t you…um…care about her at all?’

He gazes at me, and suddenly our surroundings drop away, and it feels as if his eyes, which look violet in the red lights of the bar, are boring into me with uncanny perceptiveness. As if he is seeing right into my soul. It does not last long, but they are an incredibly and startlingly disconcerting few seconds. However, his voice when he speaks is amused and light. ‘What makes you say that?’

My whole body trembles, but I keep it cool. ‘I was just curious about your…odd relationship.’

‘Odd?’

I look at the smoothly tanned skin at the opening of his shirt collar. ‘If I were her I would be jealous.’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Obviously not. I’m not your girlfriend and we’re just having fun.’

‘Hmmm.’

I take another large sip of my drink. ‘This is delicious, by the way.’