Lilith
Somewhere beyond the horizon a storm was brewing. Although the sky was still clear, the faint whistle that escaped from my lungs every time I exhaled warned of the building pressure. Relief would only come once the storm broke; until then I would have to make do with my inhaler.
I stood behind the dining room door and prepared to make my entrance. I smoothed down the skirt of the dress I always chose when I needed a boost to my courage: the teal satin Dior that I had last worn when I went head-to-head with Johnny Buckle. Only this time, as per Blaine’s request, it was teamed with an Edwardian lace throw to hide the raw eczema that blighted my arms.
I straightened my back and walked into the room. The couple Blaine had hired me to entertain stood with their hostess, making the most of the sparse breeze that drifted through open patio doors.
‘And here’s my artist.’ Blaine gave her best Hollywood smile. She had opted for red-carpet glamour for the evening, and looked warmer and softer than she deserved in a caramel silk cocktail dress. She took my arm, patting it softly like a proud owner. ‘Lilith Bresson, may I introduce Royce Garvey, historian and documentary-maker, and his fiancée, Selena Clarke.’
‘Miss Bresson, can I just say I am a tremendous fan of your, ah... work.’ Royce took my proffered hand and raised it to his lips. He gave it an overly-moist, noisy kiss that left me with a wet hand and nowhere to wipe it. He straightened, and I realised he was only scant inches taller than I was. ‘I really do feel that in this repressed society, anyone who approaches sexuality in art with the... gleeful abandon that you do should be championed.’ He smoothed his greying comb-over neatly into place and devoured me with tiny eyes, half-hidden behind eyebrows that hadn’t been pruned for decades. ‘And may I just say you look absolutely...’ In lieu of words, he made a noise that was meant to be appreciative but would not have been out of place in an obscene phone call.
I wondered what the hell his manufactured young fiancée might think about such obvious leching so early in the proceedings, but I needn’t have worried: Selena’s own carnivorous gaze was firmly fixed on the beautiful, immaculately-groomed young man who had just made his customary entrance at the top of the stairs.
Finn, for his part, had eyes for no-one else but me. Confusion and betrayal scourged his features before he had chance to hide his shock, then I watched as he stepped faultlessly into the act that would carry him through the evening.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Blaine.’ He walked confidently over to our little group. ‘Damn bow tie threatened to get the better of me. I swear, you should be able to study for a degree in tying those things.’ Polite laughter formed the soundtrack as he kissed her on both cheeks, then turned to me with a fixed smile. His pupils were saucer-wide already. ‘Lilith,’ he nodded in my direction, and to me alone, his resentment was palpable.
Now it was Blaine’s turn to take charge of the proceedings. This was, after all, her business. The introductions were completed and she ushered us to the table. I sat on Royce’s left; Finn, as brittle as deadwood, took the seat next to Selena – much to her obvious delight – and our hostess went to the head of the table.
‘Selena, darling, you look absolutely stunning. Such an unusual dress,’ she said as she took her seat.
I watched with morbid fascination as yet one more supposedly intelligent adult melted under Blaine’s polished brand of bullshit flattery.
‘This? Oh, it’s from a little boutique in LA. Roycie had it designed for me when we were over there last autumn. He was picking up some award or other for his ‘Sex Lives of the Emperors’ doc.’ She had a piercing voice that needed conscious modulation to stop it becoming glass-breakingly shrill. Somewhere down the line, daddy had paid for hours of elocution lessons to get his little darling a few more steps up the social ladder.
‘What do you think, Lilith?’ Blaine asked me.
I already wanted to strangle Selena simply for shortening the perfectly adequate word, ‘documentary’, but that was beside the point; I was merely expected to contribute to this nauseating farce and try not to outshine the birthday girl. My task wasn’t made any easier by her choice of outfit. She wore a cantilevered , augmented-breast-skimming satin dress the colour of egg-yolk. Somewhere in deepest Nebraska, a prom queen two sizes smaller than Selena was wondering where the fuck her outfit had disappeared to. She wore her honey-toned hair piled high on her head, and even in candlelight I could see the hidden welds of hair-extensions.
Underneath the thin veneer of ostentatious glamour she looked absolutely appalling, but ‘What do you think, Lilith?’ was nothing to do with complimenting Selena, and everything to do with Blaine testing the extent of my compliance.