The Mirror World of Melody Black (15 page)

‘Certainly.' He doesn't even blink – but, then, why would he? It's not just professional poise; I expect things like this happen all the time at the Dorchester: windswept women in cocktail dresses, flouncing in from the street and making their demands. Once you reach a certain level of opulence, nothing seems odd, or even eccentric. ‘What sort of room did you have in mind?'

‘One with a view over the park. As high as you have available. I want to see blue sky and open space.' My voice drips with entitlement.

‘I can offer you a Deluxe King on the eighth floor. It would certainly meet those requirements.'

‘Perfect.'

Five minutes later, I've signed a form, handed over my credit card details, and am being transported through a wondrous maze of softly lit corridors and antechambers. The porter reveals not a jot of curiosity regarding my lack of luggage. We ride a lift twice as large as my bathroom in conspiratorial silence, his eyes averted and his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He holds open every door along the way, addresses me as madam as he gestures for me to pass.

My room is bright and spacious, impeccably furnished with antique furniture and a bed that could sleep a netball team. The broad window overlooks the treetops, beyond which Hyde Park shimmers like a dappled green sea. London is a spectacular city for the privileged few.

I have nothing to unpack, of course, so the first thing I do once I've taken in my environment is run myself a bath. The bathroom is like an astonishing chapel of white marble, with a tub as deep as a grave. There's light pouring through a frosted window, a spotless double sink, a wicker basket stuffed with luxury toiletries. While the water is running, I remove my phone from my handbag and wrap it in one of the spare towels. I then stow this package at the bottom of the wardrobe.

I make coffee, then undress in front of the full-length mirror. From a couple of feet away, the slight rawness of my new tattoo is no longer discernible. It's just perfect – so mesmerizing against the creamy softness of my breasts I want to cry. It's a tragedy that Beck didn't want to see it. This was a moment we were supposed to share. But it's his loss, not mine. I gave him the chance and he didn't want to know.

I steep in scalding water for the next fifteen minutes, with the throbbing ache in my left breast partially and pleasantly reignited. I wash my hair, scrub a day's worth of city grime from my skin and nails. I towel off, dry and brush my hair, reapply make-up and put in fresh contact lenses. It's too hot for clothes, I decide – even a bathrobe – so I spend the next hour or so naked. I sit at the rosewood desk by the window and write up ‘Which Blue?'
on eight sheets of hotel notepaper. It's a masterpiece, needless to say – less a fashion feature than a prose poem: lyrical, playful, passionate and incisive. The sort of thing Virginia Woolf might have written had she decided to quit fiction and pawn her talents to
Cosmopolitan
. No need for a second draft; I fold and seal the article in a complimentary envelope and pop this in the side pocket of my handbag.

It's now nearly eight o'clock, but the day is still as hot and bright as a hundred-watt bulb. I'm not even remotely hungry, despite not having eaten since lunchtime. I slip back into my dress and go down to the park for a cigarette, which turns into two cigarettes. Then I head back inside for a drink.

The Dorchester Bar is all velvet upholstery and darkly polished wood, and already humming with life. Soft jazz is playing in the background, pumped in by concealed speakers. I would have liked something livelier, with a beat, but never mind. The atmosphere is elegant and moody, and for now that's enough. A suited waiter meets me in the entranceway and tells me there aren't any tables available, but I'm welcome to sit at the bar if I'd like. This is more than fine by me. I decide, in that split second, that I'd much prefer to sit at the bar, which is a sleekly curved work of art. The wall behind it is a tapestry of backlit spirits.

I order a black coffee with a shot of amaretto in it and tell the barman to charge it to my room. I don't plan on having more than a couple of drinks. Too much alcohol would dull me, and all I really want is to sit and absorb the hot pulse of the room for an hour or so. But, inevitably, this plan goes quickly astray. Before my coffee is cold, a man in an expensive-looking shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, has taken the stool adjacent to mine. I can feel the heat from his eyes, burning into my cheek like the laser-sight on a rifle. I turn, fleetingly, take him in at a glance. Dark eyes, impeccably groomed, handsome in an arrogant, narcissistic sort of way. He looks around thirty-five, forty. He looks as if he probably does something well paid and immoral for a living.

‘Not much fun, drinking on your own,' he says.

‘How do you know I'm alone?' I shoot back. ‘Maybe I'm waiting for someone.'

He shakes his head and smiles a self-satisfied smile. ‘You're not waiting for anyone. I've been watching you for the last ten minutes.'

I flick my eyes back to him and shrug. Three sentences in and this conversation already feels dangerous.

‘Perhaps you'd like to join me at my table,' he suggests.

‘Yes,' I reply. ‘Or perhaps I wouldn't.'

For most men, this would be enough, but his smile never wavers. ‘You'll at least let me buy you another drink,' he says. ‘Something stronger than coffee.' And I've already noticed the way he formulates his questions as statements, as if all this is already a done deal.

I should probably end this right now, but I don't. The truth is, I'm enjoying it: the power play, the mind games, the cat-and-mouse. And where's the harm in that, since I know I'm not going to take it any further?

‘What are you drinking?' he asks – smugly, as if he's about to put a down payment on a sports car.

‘Champagne.'

He nods blithely. ‘Of course. I'll get us a bottle.'

He turns to get the barman's attention. I figure he's going to choose the champagne, and while it would be interesting to see what value he places on me, I won't give him the chance of escaping lightly. I've already made a thorough inspection of the drinks menu, before he sat down, so it only takes me a second to find the right page and jab my finger into it like a poisoned dart. ‘The 1996 Dom Pérignon,' I tell him.

At £650 a bottle, it's not the most expensive champagne on the menu – but it is the most expensive champagne that I can pronounce with absolute confidence; any slip in my French accent would ruin the effect.

He turns quickly back, stares for a few seconds as if gauging something, then curls his lip into something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Expensive taste,' he notes.

‘I know what I like.' I give him a look that makes it clear his masculinity is at stake, and I'm sure, for a second, he's going to fold. But after a pregnant pause, he turns back to the barman and nods. ‘A bottle of the 1996 Dom Pérignon. Two glasses.'

‘And a shot of pastis,' I add sharply. ‘Straight up. Absinthe if you've got it, Pernod if you haven't.'

This time the man gives a short, aspirated laugh; but, of course, he has no reason to be displeased with my demand. It's relatively cheap and will get me drunk quicker. He nods again at the barman.

Two crystal flutes are placed before us. The barman pops the cork and pours, then returns the bottle immediately to a cooler.

My would-be seducer raises his glass. ‘Here's to expensive taste.'

I raise my glass and we both drink: he sips; I take a generous mouthful so that my flute is half emptied. Then, maintaining eye contact the entire time, I take the shot of pastis and upend it in my champagne, which emits a serpentine rasp as it turns the pinkish colour of mother-of-pearl. The man almost chokes; the bartender's eyes widen in alarm, just for an instant, before he recovers his perfect professional mask. The jazz continues to reel and twist, and no one says anything for a few delirious seconds. I feel lighter than air, so free of ballast that I'm in danger of leaving the ground. It would be the ideal moment to down the rest of my drink and walk away, end the encounter with a flourish and no damage done. But somehow I can't. Our eyes are locked and I have to see what he'll do next – whether he'll cut his losses, pick up the bottle and retreat, or continue to roll with the punches.

It's the latter, of course. There's nothing more attractive to the stupidly wealthy than an absolute indifference to the value of things. It's like a shot of testosterone in the arm. The man's face moulds to another sardonic smile. ‘That's one of the stranger things I've seen in this bar,' he says. ‘How is it?'

I take another mouthful, letting the aniseed bubbles titillate my tongue. ‘It's like nothing you can imagine,' I tell him.

Another bar, another Friday. The circumstances very different.

I'm a little high, but not so much that it's a problem. I just have that extra zing, that bit more energy and imagination. Two double vodka and Cokes have been placed before me as I rifle through my purse, searching for usable currency. I don't have any cash – I know that already – but I realize too late that I don't have my debit card either. ‘I must have left it in my other jeans,' I explain to the barman, who absorbs this extraneous information as impassively as a slab of granite. ‘Can I put it on my credit card?'

‘Yes. Of course.' He thrusts the card reader towards me.

‘I don't know my PIN,' I add.

‘You don't know your PIN?'

‘No. I mean, I hardly ever use this card, except online. I'll have to sign for it.'

The barman groans loudly, a noise that is echoed at least twice in the crowd behind me. It's early evening, it's central London – so of course everywhere is frantic. ‘You can't sign for it,' he tells me. ‘If you don't know your PIN you can't use that card.'

‘That's ridiculous!'

‘It's company policy. Prevents fraud.'

‘Well, look' – I shove my open purse towards his face – ‘I have my driving licence here. See? Same name.'

He shakes his head and grips both vodka glasses, as if I might run off with them. ‘No PIN, no drinks.'

‘Oh, for God's sake! I could buy a diamond over the internet without needing my PIN. So why do I need it to buy a bloody drink?'

‘Excuse me?' I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round angrily. It's the guy next in line at the bar. He's tall and I'm wearing flats, so the first thing I see is his stubble. It's not designer stubble; it's too-busy-to-shave stubble. He's not much older than me – twenty-four, twenty-five perhaps – but he looks fraught, vaguely exasperated. He's still wearing work clothes – shirt, tie and trousers. The shirt has a couple of creases and has come untucked on one side. He looks as if he has come straight from a very long week.

‘Yes, I know!' I snap. ‘I'm holding everyone up. But unnecessary interruptions aren't going to help matters.'

‘Er, no. Probably not,' he agrees, with a slightly worried grin. ‘Actually, I was going to offer to buy your drink for you.'

‘Oh.' I fumble for a few moments. The barman tuts loudly. ‘Thanks. That's extremely kind of you. Or it would have been kind of you. I assume the offer has expired?'

‘The offer still stands.'

‘Well . . .' I open my purse again to demonstrate its emptiness. ‘I do have a bit of a cash flow situation at the moment.'

‘Yes, I heard.' He shrugs. ‘It's happened to all of us at one point or another.'

‘Thank you. That's a lie, I'm sure, but it's a nice lie.'

The barman coughs and drums his fingers.

‘You're sure?' I ask, but a twenty-pound note has already been handed over the bar with no further debate.

‘Listen,' I tell him. ‘I'd like to pay you back for this. If you give me your address, I'll send you a cheque.'

‘Oh, no. Not necessary. Really. It's just a drink. No big deal.'

‘Actually, it's two drinks,' I point out. ‘I'm with someone. My flatmate,' I add quickly. ‘She's had kind of a lousy day. Her boyfriend dumped her, and I promised I'd take her out and get her good and drunk.' I nod towards my purse. ‘Except it looks like she's going to be buying for the rest of the evening. Turns out I'm an awful friend.'

‘No, not awful. Just slightly incompetent.'

I laugh, and it feels warm and wonderfully unforced. ‘Yes, exactly.'

‘But your intentions were good.'

‘They always are.'

The barman hands him the change, along with the two vodkas and a pint of something, and the crowd starts jostling to fill the space we're vacating.

‘Look,' I say once we're clear of the serving area, ‘usually I'd ask if you'd like to join us, but it's not a good time, like I said. We're probably going to spend the next two hours talking about what shits men are.'

‘Then I'll happily give it a miss.'

‘I'd still like your number, though,' I persist. ‘Or email – whatever.'

‘No, really. It's fine. Completely unnecessary. Take it as a random act of kindness.'

I give him a patient smile. ‘Yes, I know it's unnecessary. That's no longer why I'm asking.'

‘Oh.' I think he blushes a bit, and at that moment I can't imagine anything sweeter. ‘Um, yes, that's different, then. Sorry – I'm bumbling. Let me try again: I'd love to give you my number. Do you have a pen?'

‘Er . . .' I reach into my bag. ‘Yes. Four pens, in fact. No money, but four pens. Perhaps I should have tried bartering for my drinks?' I flash another smile and hand him a ballpoint and a beer mat, on the back of which he scribbles his details – phone
and
email. I read it as he writes –
[email protected]
– then pop the beer mat in my bag.