Page 6 of Kept 2
“The Camden Markets are having a night festival, open till midnight,” the tall beach babe says, “I was planning on going, they have funky retro pre-loved gear, antiques, food stalls, so much.”
“Pre-loved,” I nod my head, “second-hand, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes,” I turn my eyes back to the man, “that is where I want to go.”
“Hey,” the girl smiles, a friendly, wide-eyed, never-heard-of-vampires-in-my-life-of-sunshine-and-surf, smile, “do you want to share a cab?”
“No.”
3
I smile nervously at the maître de as he looks at me. I can tell he is feeling predisposed to like me at the moment, because I am dressed sexily in my little black dress, perfect make-up, squeezy second-hand heels, and I am giving him my full and undivided, breathy attention.
“Myfriend,” I put a heavy inflection on the word, “has made a reservation for a table for two and asked me to arrive separately.
“I see, Madam, and does yourfriendhave a name?”
“I can’t say,” I whisper as I lean close to the counter, my cleavage more visible.
“I see,” he says conspiratorially, as he opens his heavy, leather-bound appointment book and scans the names before him. “Is it fair to say that yourfriendis someone who enjoys power and privilege?”
“It is,” I say quietly.
“Right this way please, Madam.”
I can’t believe my gamble paid off, but I try not to smile as I follow him to a small, private dining room with a roaring open fire. It features one table in the middle of the room, two chairs, white linen tablecloth, silver cutlery and crystal glasses, and is obviously perfect for the clandestine rendezvous so many high-powered men in London make with their lovers.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as he pulls out my chair, and I take a seat.
“Would Madam like a drink while she awaits her host?”
“Yes, champagne, please.”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t ask me what type, so I have to assume he will serve the best, as he leaves momentarily, and I hear him giving instructions before returning with my waiter. As could be expected in the finest dining establishment in London, he will be mine, and only mine, for the duration of the evening.
“This is Amande,” the maître de says, introducing the man and watching as he pours my champagne into a crystal flute so delicate it sings as the bubbles rise, “and he will ensure you have everything you need.”
“Thank you,” I smile, leaning forward to ensure my cleavage is, once more, visible. I want him to think of me as a mistress, a lover, someone a man would risk his reputation and his marriage on. Someone who could give a man something his wife, children and respectable position could not – a little danger, a little spice, a lot of nice. If he notices he makes no show of it, but being a man, I am sure he did.
Once he has gone, I turn to Amande.
“My friend is running late; he phoned to tell me to order my meal, just in case he is held up longer than expected. May I see a menu please?”
“Of course, Madam. May I suggest the chef’s speciality?”
“No, thank you.”
I peruse the menu and smile. If I am going to die soon and let’s face it, there is a very, very good chance that is going to happen; I intend to go out with a stomach full of the finest and most expensive food money isn’t going to buy.
Even still, the prices make me gasp. I could buy ten dresses for the cost of one entrée here. They would be ten cheap dresses, sure, I mean I know a bargain when I see one, and I am watching my pennies. I can’t afford flashy clothes when I need to pay for travel and accommodation. But truth be told I wasn’t really one for expensive clothes anyway, not like Margarita. Thinking of my friend again makes me sad, and I shake my head a little and continue perusing the menu.
‘Where could she be? Could the vampire have killed her? Did he rip her apart first, to teach me a lesson? No, I just don’t think so. Would he have drunk her? No. She was not rich, not the country club type. He would not have targeted her for a meal. Where was she then? Could she actually be on honeymoon with her lover? But if so, why hadn’t she called me?’
My thoughts begin to whiz in every direction, from clothes to Margarita, to the strange Tudor life my pursuer led before becoming a vampire, back to clothes, back to the menu….
