"This is just dangerous".
Lucy’s hypnotic eyes swirled as she leaned over the table.
"Besides, do you really want to be those girls? You know the ones I mean…"
Icy agreement crawled up my spine. I didn’t want us to be ‘those girls’, but chilled, I wondered if we already were.
In daylight, the seediness of the situation was felt by all. Yet with such typical carelessness Imogen and I shrugged. Together we would probably allow ourselves to be carried away to a desert island. In the hope of finding paradise, but as likely to be greeted by salivating cannibals or death by starvation and sunstroke. Fortunately we have the luck of the Irish- and each other.
We had been contacted by Nicola, the dark haired woman who swept us up at Jalouse almost a week previously. She had made dinner reservations for a party of nine, and invited us to join.
"Oh my god it takes months to get on the waiting list. I think we should go."
"I don’t know…"
But standing in front of Imogen’s wardrobe I had already submitted. The full length mirror, associated with so many nights out, initiated default behaviour. Suddenly we were painting our nails and curling/ straightening hair…
We met the other girls at the sliding doors, and were swept into a different world. Three floors and more went underground. Endless round tables scattered in areas serving different cuisine, eaten by men and women that gleamed in designer clothes, flawless make-up and precious jewels. The highest society, so rarely seen, had gathered here in masses. Further below ground was a club area, where we were directed to wait at Peter’s table. It was like falling into Alice’s rabbit-hole, and with each twirl becoming more and more aware of your own imposter peasantry. Given away either by the dress I was wearing- one of two that I owned, my nervousness or crude prettiness.
You can spot blue bloods by this nonchalant ability to make labels seem unremarkable. As though they simply belong on their bodies and are conjoined to their DNA. It is a seamless ability to adopt material items as almost spiritual goods. I however, stand so far apart from my fancy clothes and wear them so awkwardly that I felt my commonness must stand out like a shining beacon in my face.
Eventually we were invited upstairs to a restaurant table, where Peter sat with four guests. To my left was Emily, as unnerved and quiet as I had become, playing with the hams and cheeses prepared for us I whispered under my breath,
"It feels like there’s no gravity here."
Without the aid of alcohol, the conversation was stilted. Peter is a self-made millionaire and venture capitalist. His working class background betrays itself in his coarse accent and gluttonous social habits. Presently he whipped out the portfolio of his most recent project. A luxurious apartment complex that will be hoisted in the coming year. We all cooed and ahhed.
Peter’s girl-friend Inga, the pious ‘angel’ Nicola had described, supposedly walked the runways of Dolce and Gabbana at fourteen. She was Latvian, with white blonde hair and pretty though hardly breath-taking features. She glared at us understandably as we sat down- with a face that struck me not for looks, but for how old it was. She is my age, and yet decades my elder. If once sublimely beautiful, her beauty has all withered up into the life she has lived, and how tired and mean her expression was. Plainly speaking, Inga is Peter’s ‘kept-woman’. He provides for all her living expenses and in return she has no rights, as we were about to discover.
"Ladies! I have a present for you all! Just a little something I picked up from a friend."
Dancing around the table he presented us each with a bracelet. Watching Inga’s reaction from the corner of my eye I whispered to Emily,
"Now we’re collared."
