Black Glass (32 page)

CHAPTER 12:
THE APPOINTMENT

[Remedy, private club, Commerce Zone: Violet | ‘Katerina' | Damon | Madame Krane | bartender and patrons]

Walking through the Interzone, Violet's nerves jangled like fence wire and she fought the urge to glance back over her shoulder. The wind spat at her in chilly gusts. She needed a coat, she realised, summer was over, but it was too late now to go back and borrow one from Macy. She had to be on time for this audition: everything depended on it.

She stuck close to the bright shopfronts, avoiding the empty lots and brutish car parks, the sour alleys and dimly lit arcades. The old buildings seemed miserable, with their blank eyes and concrete steps spilling down like rumpled tongues. Violet couldn't remember seeing the city look so ugly.

When she had a job, walking around at night hadn't bothered her so much. These nerves were part of a new uncertainty. She missed the security of working for Merlin, knowing the rent was covered and she had somewhere safe to sleep. She missed their weekly routine too, the clatter of applause, her name chalked up on the board and booming out over the PA, reminding her of who she was now, who she'd somehow managed to become. But most of all, she missed having something to look forward to, a distraction that helped to keep the pain at bay.

Despite Merlin's solemn ways, she even missed the old man himself: his approving nods when she got the timing spot-on; his dogged dedication to showmanship; his funny little sayings,
Blessed are the pure in heart … Thine eye shall not pity …
The thought of that frail figure, in his stovepipe trousers and velvet jacket, made her sad. They'd make him wear a hospital gown and confiscate his hipflask. It was the cheap hospital, Kev said, where the dorms slept twenty and rats bred in the walls. Proud old Merlin, reduced to the indignity of crutches, sponge baths and bedpans, mush for dinner in a plastic bowl. And all alone, she reminded herself with a twist of guilt. But wasn't she alone herself? (And whose fault was that?)

Voices floated from a church alcove: two addicts arguing, a man and a woman, the hard whine of junk in their voices. Violet knew that sound. Stuck, she thought. Trapped in a pointless loop, going round and round in shrinking circles. She hugged herself against the chill and walked a little faster.

The streets were strangely empty. Now and then she passed another walker, but they exchanged no more than a glance. Under her breath she chanted a string of assurances: You'll be fine, they'll love you. Smile and nod.
Yes, I can sing and dance, stagecraft is kind of my thing, really; I know a little bit of French: Où est la gare? Où est la voiture? Où est la porte?
Smile and be calm. You have to get this job. You must. What would they ask her? Previous experience, people skills, ability to improvise? Her juggling was getting pretty good, but mentioning that would just sound silly — not many jobs required juggling skills. She crossed into the Commerce Zone and let her attention wander to the window displays.

The building wasn't what she had expected. She'd envisaged an old rehearsal hall, or maybe a small office, with a bell to push for entry — certainly not this. The entrance was set to one side of a tall, narrow tower clad in dark glass. It looked understated but expensive, three red lanterns glowing above the doorway, but no sign out the front to announce its name. Violet stood across the street, hugging her bare arms to stay warm, as she watched glamorous people ascend the gold-painted steps, the security guards usher them through the roped-off entranceway.

The whole thing was intimidating. Would they even let her in? She was meant to head inside at exactly eight forty-five p.m., Diggy had said, and a client representative would collect her at nine on the dot. Wear that green dress and sit at the bar on the mezzanine, he'd instructed. She couldn't bring herself to ask him what a mezzanine was. She'd ask someone inside.

Several streets away, an illuminated clock high above the buildings clicked over to announce the time had come: she had to move. Violet gave her arms one last rub and crossed the road. She walked straight towards the entrance with her shoulders back, her chin up, the way Macy would have done. She fell into step behind a tall woman wearing some kind of fur jacket, real or fake she couldn't tell, and held her breath — but the security staff simply made eye contact and waved her through with a nod and smile, as if they'd been expecting her.

Violet stopped dead in the foyer. The place looked like a movie set for some upscale hotel from many decades back: heavy chandeliers looped in faceted glass, a floor of some green stone shot through with streaks of pearl, antique furniture with fat tasselled cushions. A group of tall thin young women with similarly perfect features, obviously models, were coolly greeting guests, checking in coats and directing people to the lifts. Violet found herself ushered in with a group that included the woman in fur. Even the lift was luxurious: lined in dark red wood and mirror glass etched with swirling vines. Her fellow passengers were laughing at something a portly man with a moustache had said. ‘Eddie,' said the tall woman, slapping his arm playfully, ‘you're a disgrace.'

The doors opened onto a large room full of colour and sound: velvety wallpaper, candles stacked in fancy holders all over, flowers heaped in heavy vases. There were people everywhere, talking, flirting, sitting in darkened booths or leaning against pillars, holding jewel-coloured drinks. The heavy thump of music came from above, a female vocal swooping and looping through the beats. Lining one side of the room was a long bar, its lit-up shelves stacked with colourful bottles, light glowing through the liquid. A spiral staircase led to a second level, where flowering plants drooped overhead. The back wall of the room was purely glass, one huge window with the twinkle of the city spread out below as far as the eye could see.

Violet swallowed hard and straightened her back. She did not belong in here. In a minute she'd be noticed, and someone would ask her to leave. She needed to find somewhere to sit, somewhere unobtrusive, before they kicked her out. She caught the eye of a young woman not much older than herself, wearing a red dress with a big slit up the side of the skirt.

‘Excuse me,' she asked. ‘Do you know where the mezzanine is?'

The girl gave her a friendly grin and pointed up the spiral staircase. ‘Up there, darl,' she said in an accent Violet recognised, a Regions drawl that did not fit with their surroundings.

Upstairs was a more dimly lit room with a dance floor and some kind of flowering vine looped across the ceiling. Violet skirted the dance floor, around half-full and mostly women, and took a stool at the far end of the bar. From here, facing the mirrored wall, she could see anyone coming up the stairs, and also keep an eye on the dancers behind her: gave her something to look at, so she didn't seem so out of place. Almost everyone here was older than her, but the crowd was mixed and there didn't seem to be a strict dress code: there were women in expensive beaded dresses and guys in suits; further down the bar sat an old white-haired man wearing some kind of cravat, talking to some punky-looking kids in their early twenties. Next to them sat a guy in dark glasses, reading a tabloid comic. How can he read in this light, she wondered?

An older woman appeared at her side, and the barman was there instantly, offering her a purple cocktail on a silver tray. The woman's face was strangely smooth, her fingers loaded with rings, and her silvery hair was piled high in an elaborate do. As she sipped her drink, her gaze fell on Violet's face. ‘Hello, darlink,' she said, batting gigantic eyelashes. ‘You enjoy yourself?' Violet nodded courteously, and the woman was gone.

She was about to ask the barman the price of a house red when she remembered: no booze tonight.

‘Lime and soda, please,' she told him. She watched him scoop ice into a glass, add vodka and fresh lime, fill it to the brim with fizz, and place the drink before her on a fancy coaster.

‘Ah,' said Violet. Mostly she let things slide, but she couldn't drink tonight. ‘Did you just put vodka in that?'

‘Vodka, lime and soda, miss,' he said politely. ‘Like you said.'

‘Sorry, but I didn't ask for vodka.' She sounded apologetic. ‘I don't drink alcohol. I just want lime and soda.'

With a civil nod, he tipped the drink into a gleaming sink and refilled her glass, repeating the sequence minus the booze. She counted out her coins, but the barman waved them away. ‘On the house.' He smiled. ‘Compliments of the boss.'

Her drink was almost finished when she saw the young woman approaching, reflected in the bar mirror behind her. Violet stared: this place was full of beautiful people, but this one looked like she'd come straight off a catwalk clip, all shiny hair and lean limbs, dark flashing eyes and one of those pouty mouths.

When the woman noticed Violet in the mirror, her face broke into a wide girlish grin; disarmingly, it was a little crooked. She took the barstool next to Violet, perching elegantly with her long legs crossed at the knee, shook her hair back over her shoulder and offered her hand to shake.

‘Ah! So lovely to meet you,
Vee-oh-letta
,' she said in a strong accent. ‘Wow! You are so gorgeous. I am Katerina.' This is a woman from a film, thought Violet, stunned. This is a supermodel or a movie star; she was so beautiful, she couldn't possibly be anything else.

‘Phoooh,' said the woman, raising her voice over the music. ‘I am rushing!'

‘You're from Russia?' asked Violet, and the woman laughed.

‘No, silly. I am rushing to meet you! I keep you waiting, sorry for this.' She took out a tin of green lozenges. ‘These ones, they are good for the meetings when you feel nervous.' She winked, putting one in her mouth and offering the tin. ‘Good for the figure too!'

Violet took one. It tasted of mint and something bitter, like the juniper in gin. ‘So you're not from Russia?' she said.

Katerina laughed again. How old was she? Twenty-one? Twenty-five? Older? Her face was unlined, skin clear as the surface of a pearl. ‘I am from Ukraine,' she said. ‘You know this place?'

Violet had never heard of it. ‘Not really, sorry. I'm from up the Regions.'

‘Ah,' said Katerina vaguely, ‘is nice?'

The barman had appeared again. ‘May I get you a drink, miss?' he asked Katerina.

‘I will take a whiskey with ice,' she said. ‘And you, Violet? Your glass here is finished.'

Was this a test? Diggy had been clear about the drinking: they liked their girls healthy, he'd said, wouldn't hire a boozer.

‘I can't drink before the audition,' she said, but Katerina waved her hand like she was shooing flies.

‘Darling, just one. If you walk nice, it's no problem. What do you like?'

Violet relented. ‘Vodka, lime and soda, please,' she said to the barman, feeling foolish. ‘With vodka this time,' she added; it didn't show up on your breath. The barman went off, with only a slight roll of his eyes.

‘Won't we be late?' Violet asked, but Katerina said her appointment was half an hour away. Plenty of time, she said. Relax.

Their drinks arrived, and Violet noticed that no money changed hands. The beautiful woman raised her glass. ‘
Budmo!
' she exclaimed. ‘In Ukraine this means:
We will live forever.
Like you say
Cheers
, but better, yes?'

Violet echoed the toast. ‘
Budmo!
' Her nerves, she was surprised to note, had disappeared completely.

Katerina entertained her over one slow drink, then led her to the far corner of the room, a dark little alcove tucked away behind a screen of greenery. She pressed a button in the wall, and two steel doors slid open onto a lift. As they stepped inside Katerina insisted that Violet take another mint. ‘Good to relax.' She winked at her. ‘So you don't be nervous.' Then she pressed the whole tin into her hand. ‘Keep them.' She giggled. ‘But don't have too many each day!'

Before Violet could respond the doors opened to reveal a small foyer. It was done out like a posh hotel, luxurious but unfussy, cream with pale green and gold trimmings, a red leather couch and lush plants. An enormous chandelier glittered. The whole place smelled of fresh flowers.

After introducing her to the receptionist, Katerina skipped off down the corridor with a little wave. ‘Good luck,' she sang back.

Violet was shown to a couch, oddly unperturbed at her new friend's departure.
You'll just have to improvise
, she told herself.
Ad lib.
She felt unusually calm.

Emerald vines rose up the walls, with shiny leaves and spiky tropical flowers, too perfect to be anything but artificial; but when she looked closely she saw slight irregularities — a tiny hole, a new bud sprouting. The plants were real, the chandelier no doubt crystal. She heard low murmurs from a nearby hallway, people coming and going just out of sight.

The receptionist spoke quietly into a phone, then led her to a plush room where two women and a man were waiting. They rose and shook Violet's hand across the table, welcomed her with perfect white smiles. She didn't catch their names, but they were well dressed, with pleasant, unremarkable faces. One woman wore a white lab coat like a scientist, the other a pink sleeveless dress, the man a dark suit. They were thirty-ish, she guessed, maybe more; rich people did all sorts of things to make themselves look younger.
Make eye contact
, thought Violet.
Build rapport
.