Devil's Food (16 page)

‘Corinna! Off with the tat, dear, you’re going to love this dress. Oleg’s outdone himself,’ she remarked, locking the shop door and beckoning me into an alcove lined with mirrors. Undressing in front of a phalanx of mirrors is a severe test for any person, but I did it. And I didn’t look too bad. Very Rubens, of course, but not saggy or blemished. Mistress Dread gave me an approving pat on a buttock and threw over my head a confection of black silk and lace that slid down my body and fitted exactly to my curves.

‘He’s thinking of a Spanish dress in a portrait by Goya,’ Mistress Dread informed me, tweaking the wide neckline into place. Oh, it was lovely. The black silk made my skin look white as milk. The dress was frilled heavily from the hips downwards, and upwards clung like a second skin. The silk was heavy, soot-black and looked almost wet.

‘And then over it,’ said Mistress Dread, smiling, ‘we have the corset.’ She lifted my breasts into a thin leather shell, such as Zena might have worn, and began to lace me in. Up rose my ordinarily unremarkable breasts into perfect twin globes that might have given a Restoration poet wet dreams. I had seen this transformation before and it never failed to enchant. My long sleeves were heavily beaded at the hem, which made them agreeably heavy. I raised my hands and crossed them on my beautiful bosom. Oh, Corinna.

‘And then we put up your hair,’ continued Mistress Dread, dragging handfuls of my hair into a scant ponytail on top of my head and securing it with several very sharp hairpins and a comb stuck straight into the scalp. Then she draped over this prominence a fine black mantilla that framed my face in dark, delicate folds. I was beautiful. I turned this way and that, intoxicated by my own reflection.

‘Say something,’ Mistress Dread ordered. She still had her whip on a thong at her wrist and I had been unduly silent.

‘It’s utterly wonderful,’ I said in a hushed tone.

‘I thought so,’ she said, pleased. ‘You couldn’t wear this if you were thin, you know. It needs bulk to fill out the curves. Oh, indeed. Walk a little. You need your boots, of course. Then the hem won’t drag. Turn. Oh, yes.’

She clasped her hands on her armoured breast like the proud mother of the bride. I was overwhelmed by her kindness.

‘This was so nice of you,’ I started. She tapped me with her whip.

‘Don’t thank me. Does Oleg good to make something different. You can pay me for the dress,’ she added, ‘but this is a present.’

She handed me a large, brightly painted fan. Due to a school production of
The King and I
, I knew how to flick it open and shut. I did so, picking up my skirt with the other hand. The dress moved like a cloud or a dream.

Mistress Dread giggled. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘You really will be the belle of the ball. Now, dear, let’s sit down and have a drink and a gossip. It’s been ages since I saw anyone,’ she said. ‘Not since that party for Mrs Dawson’s son. What happened to him, after all that?’

‘He’s gone back to his nice family and he’s got another job,’ I told her, sinking onto the ivory couch. The dress settled around me without creasing or stiffness. ‘The police case is complete and he’s going to testify against the people who ripped that money off from his old company. So that’s all right. But we’ve been having troubles,’ I said, accepting a White Lady from Mistress Dread’s ever-available supply. ‘First of all, my mother turned up …’

Mistress Dread listened through two White Ladies as I told her all about my appalling parents, the dangerous herbs which had poisoned Kylie and Goss, and the smuggling of poisons in the Fair Trade goods. Several times her eyebrows rose over her pale blue eyes. To complete the tale I threw in a description of the real creepy dudes who had unnerved Jason.

‘See what happens when I don’t pay attention?’ asked Mistress Dread. ‘All that going on and I missed it. Still, I’d like to know about that weight loss tea. If anyone is selling it in my dungeon they’ll be strung up before they know what’s hit them. And then they’ll know what is hitting them, because it will be me. I’ve fought too hard to keep the drug dealers out of the club — I know they’re in the street outside but they aren’t in my club — to allow some swine peddling poisonous weeds to infest the place. I shall speak to my Igors. They’re supposed to let me know if they see anything iffy.’

‘There might not be anything,’ I said, hoping that she wouldn’t be too hard on the Igors. They were the dungeon’s servitors, and it was a hard job, keeping the alcohol supply up while wearing a papier-mâché hump and remembering to speak with a lisp. Jason moonlighted as an Igor most Saturday nights. He said it kept him out of trouble. ‘They might just be selling at Cafe Vlad.’

‘I’ve heard that it isn’t a well conducted place,’ she said, primming up her lips like a governess of the old school confronted with a green-haired punk. ‘You’re going there with Daniel? Keep your hand on your money. Several people have been robbed there — well, not robbed, pickpocketed. It’s not a very good location, either — street’s not all that safe. But you’ll be all right,’ she said, patting me on my bare shoulder. ‘Now, do me a cheque for Oleg and off you go. I’ve got a client coming at three thirty.’

I reluctantly removed the dress, corset and mantilla, packed them into a box, paid for it all, and took my leave of Mistress Dread. Though I yield to no one in my admiration of her character, she is a threatening presence and I always exit her shop with a small, slightly shameful feeling of relief.

Now for Daniel, Horatio, another drink and a nice afternoon snooze to prepare me for the evening. Since I had been potating freely (one does not refuse a drink from Mistress Dread), I made a very small gin and tonic for myself when Daniel and I were settled on the marble bench in the Temple of Ceres. Horatio, who was feeling clingy, sat down rather markedly on Daniel’s lap, curling his tail around his paws. I leaned on Daniel’s shoulder. He bore up very well under this, managing his glass with his one free hand. Black clouds loomed outside, riding the top of the buildings. Suddenly I loved Daniel so much that it literally hurt my heart. I put a hand on my breast. Dark eyes looked down at me with perfect understanding.

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d find you. Couldn’t bear to lose you.’

I hugged him closer. We watched the fine rain slant across the glass. I had never been so happy.

Before we sank into complete blissful immobility, however, Horatio rose and decided it was time to return to the apartment for a suitable nap. He emphasised this by driving a selection of claws into Daniel’s thigh, which awoke us with an ‘ouch’. I finished my drink and got up. Daniel allowed Horatio to ascend to his shoulder, and we went down in the lift, still not speaking, and put ourselves to bed.

Where instead of making love we fell asleep as though stunned, and didn’t wake for four hours. And when we did our relationship had changed to something which felt solid and enduring and very, very comfortable. I’m new at this love thing. Perhaps this is normal. But it felt fantastic.

We dined lightly on grilled cheese sandwiches and soup left over from the shop, a good solid minestrone with a lot of vegetables. It was no use going to a vampire club until eleven at the earliest, so despite our self-imposed ban we sat down to watch the news. A bad mistake. Internationally, things were terrible. Assassinations, wars, and did I really need to see (1) the bodies from an Indian flood and (2) the remains from a huge chemical explosion and (3) a sniper on a Palestinian roof? Why show me these terrible images? In the interests of more nightmares? Our domestic news included murders, rapes, suspicious deaths and a few merry car crashes. Who defines disasters as news? Who, indeed, actually wants to see these things? Did anyone ask us? I don’t remember anyone asking me.

Sickened, we slotted in a
Buffy
DVD. These are contained disasters and known horrors. And good, mostly, wins in the end. This restored our humour. At least there was still Buffy in the world.

The night wore on. We got dressed. I donned the black dress and Daniel laced me up. I had a black cloak to go over it to hide my glorious attributes from the uninitiated. Daniel had decided against the half-naked slave, largely on account of the weather. He was wearing impeccable eighteenth century evening costume and he looked gorgeous. His hair had grown out from its severe cut and was brushed forward,
en brosse
. His suit coat was of an inky blackness and his cravat of towering whiteness. He carried a gold-topped stick and a perfumed handkerchief, which he flourished in the hand which wore the big emerald ring. Sir Percy Blakeney, in fact. I curtsied. He bowed elaborately over my hand.

‘Oh yes, I think I shall like this game,’ I observed.

‘Od’s bodkin, ma’am,’ he said ironically. ‘What is not to like?’

‘Careful,’ I said. ‘You’re slipping into Captain Hook.’

He shrugged on a swagged coat and tricorne and I put on my cloak. We were going to walk through a not very savoury bit of the city, and having a good stout stick might be of more uses than one. Nothing unseemly met our eye as we paced soberly up Flinders Lane but the occasional passing cat, the occasional scurrying rat (which doubtless occasioned the cat) and a few gentlemen who had dined well and who catcalled a little as they passed. The important thing with catcalling gentlemen is that they keep passing, and these did with barely an extra jeer. I was having to hurry to keep up with Daniel’s long stride, and put out a hand to detain him at the exact same moment that he slowed down of his own accord.

‘Sorry. I forget that my legs are longer than yours,’ he apologised.

‘Don’t mention it,’ I said, taking his left hand in mine. We were in tune now. It was a strange feeling. In my high heeled boots I was taller, almost as tall as Daniel. I liked the way the world looked from higher up. On the other hand no one designs those come-fuck-me boots for stability on wet pavements. I was planting my feet carefully, scared of slipping. A thin woman falling over is sad and conjures immediate help. A fat woman falling over is funny and produces immediate laughter. Unfair, but there it is. Luckily, I had a Daniel to lean on.

‘You nervous?’ he asked me as we crossed a main street.

‘Yes, a little. I’ve never been good at making a superb entrance.’

‘Me neither,’ he said gravely. ‘Goes against the grain. Detectives are meant to be unobtrusive. I’ve worked on not being noticed for years. Never mind. I’ve been asking around about this place.’

‘Me too. Mistress Dread says it is not well run and we should avoid pickpockets.’

‘And I’ve heard that it’s a very formal Georgian levee, with appropriate music and a lot of gay clients. Well, we shall see.’

‘Is that why you got the Scarlet Pimpernel gear?’ I asked. ‘Which suits you amazingly well, I have to say.’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And no Sir Percy ever had such a beautiful woman on his arm. Mistress Dread’s little man did a good job.’

‘I’m prostrated by your lordship’s approval,’ I said, snapping my fan, and we arrived at the front entrance of what, during the day, was Cafe Simisoa, and now proclaimed itself to be Cafe Vlad Tepes.

The door bitch was a woman with legs, I swear, two metres long, sleek in blue silk stockings. She was otherwise clad in a footman’s costume, with a short grey wig. Behind her stood two large young men with that ‘you’re not interesting unless you make a fuss and I can pound you into a fine paste such as is used to fill the cracks between floorboards’ look I have often noticed on bouncers’ faces. The door bitch scanned Daniel and smiled. I opened my cloak and she flapped a hand up and down. This must have been the ‘open the door’ signal because the bullies let us in and closed the heavy door behind us. Not a word had been exchanged.

We were in a hot narrow hall. On one side was a cloakroom with an attendant in a footman’s costume. On the other were the sanitary facilities. Not promising, but we had a mission. We checked my cloak and Daniel’s coat and hat and went into the main room, where I could hear sweet music playing. A string quartet. I knew the piece. I had often played the tape. What was it?

We stopped at the door and gasped. The management of Cafe Vlad Tepes had solved the problem of transforming a nice civilised daytime Cafe Simisoa into a vampire’s haunt by hiring a very good artist to paint four stage-set sized trompes l’oeil of a Georgian house and garden. It was hard to gauge how large the real room was, because on one side it led into an enchanting garden with a gazebo and sheep; on the adjoining one it led into a sumptuous kitchen, on another a ballroom, on another into a salon where men were playing cards.

‘Kylie didn’t mention the paintings,’ I said weakly.

‘She probably didn’t even notice them,’ said Daniel. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

We paraded across the ballroom to the servery, which was set up in front of the painted kitchen door. The young woman in standard wench costume sold us red wine and dimpled when Daniel gave her a tip. They were a set of good dimples so I did not begrudge her them.

‘Quiet tonight,’ he observed.

‘It’ll get busy after midnight,’ she answered. ‘When the night people wake and come to feed. If you are looking for dance or techno music, gentle sir, you need to find another club. The most modern we get here is the saraband.’

‘What’s the attraction, then?’ asked Daniel.

‘Calm,’ she said. ‘Formality. Manners. Not a lot of them about in the club scene. Later we’ll darken the room and play soft music to murmur sweet things by. You’ll see. There’ll be supper at one and then it all gets cosy. There’s our historian,’ she said. ‘My lord D’Urbanville! Favour us with your wisdom.’

An elderly man in the impeccable knee breeches, plain waistcoat and blue coat of Beau Brummel himself crossed the room and made an elaborate bow, which we returned civilly.

‘You are interested in my club?’ he asked in a sharp, decided voice. ‘Come, drink a glass with me and I will expound. Abigail, bring the bottle.’

‘If you please,’ I said, curtsying again for the pleasure of feeling the flow of my beautiful dress. I snapped my fan open. My lord D’Urbanville offered me his arm and we were conducted to a set of chairs and tables where some young men were playing cards. Coins were piled up to perilous heights.