Carousel Maidenbow - Fifth diary entry. 4th February 2013
6.30pm - In the Bentley en-route to the Hargreaves Dinner.
Weight 8 stone 5
Alcohol units 14 (Due to nerves)
Orgasms 3 (also due to nerves)
Coffee 6 (causing some of the nerves)
Carbs 10
Steps 6789
Regrets connected to boss Marianne 7
Thoughts of Clara Von Furstenberg 3
Fan Insert - It’s a (friend) & readers Birthday today so we included her as Annabelle’s friend. Sue (Susu) hoping the burger satisfied the craving + Happy B x - Finn & Cat.
We were to attend the Hargreaves residence a short while before the dinner party commenced; They needed to brief us on what was required prior to the guest’s arrival. Someone had roped in Beth, we guessed, since the hosts trusted her to be discreet. We’d seen Marianne for a brief time in her office as Annabelle lay down the law “observe dinner etiquette and fucking well behave yourselves”. Several club investors were attending, and she demanded excellence. Marianne, who normally displayed a show of camaraderie in opposition to Annas stern manner, had instead remained quietly at her laptop. Her face lit by the hue from the screen. She’d glanced over the top of her glasses, occasionally shuffled papers and returned to her work.
For fifteen minutes I had nodded solidly as Annabelle talked at us, making the occasional “Yes Anna’, “of course Anna’ or a ‘Umm hum’ sound. Then as abruptly as it had begun it ended. Marianne lifted her palm in a ‘bye’ gesture as I was leaving but did not look up.
The short car journey was miserable. We sat up front with Van as the notion of spending even five minutes being dressed down by Beth, Dahlia acting as her supportive audience was too much to bare.
“What’s eating you?” Van had raised the cabins partition to block out the girls’ inane chattering and for privacy.
I’d continued to stare out of the car window, the dark feeding my melancholy. I imagined the black glass that threw back my reflection splintering. Thin shards of it entering my body on a breath and piercing the delicate membrane of my heart. Stopping it.
Van gave a nudge to my ribs “Talk to me. What’s up?”
I sighed an “Oh nothing,” and then “I’m just tired” I tried to blink away the blank upset in my eyes, pushing thoughts of Clara to the forefront.
“You have a fight with M?” she asked,
“She’s been avoiding me since the Rose Room” hearing the truth of it out loud hurt.
Van squeezed my shoulder. “You can’t go on like this. You’re wrapped up in knots. Just tell her how you feel.”
I threw her an incredulous look. “What and get shipped off to London for another six years” I crossed my arms, self hugging and grumbled “no thanks.”
Van frowned, her lengthy hair falling across her face as she slowed to a junction. She set the indicator ‘tick-tick-ticking’ and searched for a clearing in the traffic. “Yeah, but that was then, things are different now” she took a chance, and a taxi horn sounded. She gave the driver the finger and added, “You’re both older, for starters, her and Anna are over and she’s definitely flirting.”
It felt good to hear her say it, but we refused to let it soothe us. “It’s a game” I took out a packet of mints from my bag and passed one to her. Chewing and savouring the taste of spearmint. We rolled the little sphere around our mouth in a displacement exercise. “Besides, she spends more on a fucking handbag than I make in a year. Let’s be realistic shall we, I’ve nothing a woman like her needs.”
Van was quiet for a time and I felt her eyes on me, “Yeah, well you can’t fuck a handbag, Ris,”
“Actually, people will fuck anything” I mumbled, offering a cold laugh
“You joke, but this is your fucking life!” she punched my arm “Risk it all, win the girl.”
“Just the one?” she ignored us, knowing that I found her addiction to Hollywood romances jarring alongside her polyamory. “That’s your fucking advice risk it all?” We knew we were being unfair, but her compassion clashed with our scheduled self pity. We threw another mint into our mouth and crunched it.
“Yes, that’s my fucking advice,” Then she grinned, her chin dimpling. “Don’t let the love of your life leave on a train while your listening to Dolly, Caris.” (A reference to Brief Encounter’s heart-rending railway cafe scene).
We raised an eyebrow until she shook her head in a ‘I give up’ gesture.
“Just, consider me advised ok?” I held up my fist, and she left me hanging for a time before she bumped it lightly. We both called each other a ‘Cunt - Bitch - Cheat - Whore’ and our friendship resumed.
When we pulled up to the Hargreaves, Van asked, “You ever gonna tell me what they had you and Dahl do?”
I was pulling on my coat and could hear the others getting out. “They forced me to sign an NDA”
She screwed up her face. “How’d they know, they’re not the FBI?”
I laughed. “Maybe later” then leaning in, I went to kiss her cheek, but Van turned her face planting her mouth on mine. We pulled away, offering her a playful frown. “You arse”
“Just employing my skills babe,” she chuckled, sticking out her tongue.
“Yeah, harassment” and giving her a wink I shut the door, drowning out her words of ‘that’s not what it says on the toilet walls’.
Looking up the steps, I could see the maid letting the girls in and waited for the Bentley to slide away before making my approach. The maid did not wait, and I had to ring the bell twice. She met me with a frustrated face and ushered me past. ‘Guess the help needed someone to look down on,’ I thought.
As she snatched our coat and bag, we considered her hostility. She had to deal with the Hargreaves twenty four seven and got paid probably less in a month that we earned in one hour boning them. It was to be expected.
Beth and Dahlia were being briefed in the vast kitchen as I arrived, and Felicity frowned at me as I skulked in and hid behind Beth. The atmosphere was charged, it was hot and smelt of sautéed fish and vegetables, there was the clanking of metal trays, the sound of a blender and the crackling of hot oil.
A slender Chinese woman in chef whites barked orders at three kitchen staff. She tasted an emulsion that a short girl with a Liverpool accent had prepared and instructed her it needed less oil and more thought.
The Hargreaves informed us that we would be serving the drinks that evening and as a bit of an icebreaker Cynthia asked what our favourite cocktails were.
“Carousel can make cocktails” blurted Dahlia nervously, much to Beth’s distaste, but Cynthia stared at me wide eyed.
“Really. Carousel?”
Peering around Beth I nodded “Yes, I was a mixologist at Kings.”
She was impressed. “In Mayfair? Oh, goodness David’s place?” (She was referring to David King, Annabelle's older brother) and considered her partner, who was swiping on her phone “That could be fun, letting the girl have a go. No?” A pause “Lis?”
Felicity half heartedly glanced up “We have Liam for that,” then, eyeing me, added, “She’s hired to do a job. Stop complicating things.”
Our outfits might as well have come from a sexy maid joke shop, the saving grace being the insanely expensive underwear they’d gifted us. Our delicate masks however would clash horrendously with the garish black and white frills. They talked us through the wine and champagne we’d be serving, in what order, temperature, and then we were informed rather offhandedly that we’d be served as - the dessert.
I sought to hide an eye roll but instead forced a grin as a Cynthia made us scribble our name on yet another waver.
After the meal, there’d be a thirty-minute break, with guests retiring to the lounge. We were to cleanse ourselves in preparation for the guests to eat a specially designed molecular dessert menu off our bodies. I was shown the bathroom they’d assigned me and towels and robes I was to use. It was all very clinical and weirdly formal.
The idea of being covered in sticky sweets, cream and salvia was not a prospect I was looking forward to, a la carte or otherwise. We glanced over at a tall male chef who was spinning sugar, mesmerised as he drizzled the mixture back and forth over a rolling pin until it hung in hundreds of thin hairlike strands.
Dahlia raised her palm sheepishly and, in a very best voice, asked Cynthia if she’d made the guests aware that someone trans was attending. Our host happily announced that she hadn’t, and that it was going to be a wonderful surprise for everyone. We saw Dahlia’s face drop, long fingers tapping against her leg nervously.
“You don’t think perhaps it would be wise to - pre-empt?” I asked, guessing that Dahlia was concerned for her safety, as was I.
Felicity stared at me in disbelief, her patience wearing thin. “Of course not Carousel, and why the hell would any of our friends have a problem?” She flashed us with a ‘stupid girl’ expression, and fell into a discussion with the Chef.
As we changed, we caught Beth casting Dahlia a critical stare. “You’d better hold it together tonight,” she snapped, attaching her garter belt and adjusting her stockings. “Don’t blow this, it’s good money and my Anna’s invested a lot!”
“I won’t, Beth,” she sniffed. “But what if someone freaks out?”
“Jesus christ Dahl, it’s a fucking dick,” she snarled. “You’re not waving a gun around.”
Dahlia’s eyes darted to me for support. “Dahl, I’m sure it will be fine and don’t forget Anna and Marianne will be there.”
“Marianne, yeah right, a piece of help she’ll be,” Beth scoffed
Buttoning up the ridiculous outfit, I marched over. “What was that?”
She squared up to me, taller by at least two inches. “Oh look who is stepping up. It’s about fucking time!” She punched her fist into the other as a threat.
“No don’t both of you, please” we heard Dahlia pleading from behind us.
I knew Beth wouldn’t do anything because she was too afraid of losing the gig but she might later, so I backed down. “You don’t think she deserves some respect considering?” the implication being ‘considering your openly screwing her wife’.
She laughed, relaxing. “Maybe if you took your face out of her boney arse once in a while, you’d see what a frigid useless bitch she is.”
I wanted to punch her, hit her square in her beautiful nose and watch the blood trickle over those perfect ebony lips. But instead, as usual, I fawned “Let’s stay professional” and moved to the stairs. From this vantage point, I could observe the guests arrival. They had posted two maids to stop us from being seen, so we hung back.
I instantly recognised a few of the guests, the big dyke with the ill fitting suit that I’d spilled the drink on at the last party, a woman who’d fingered me in the lift at ‘The Grand’ and insisted I’d called her mummy, two gay guys Teddy and Stephen who ran ‘Kemp Town Antiques’ and then to our surprise Clara Von Furstenberg.
The big German swanned in, her faux fur almost trailing the ground, black hair pinned up in an architectural feat. She removed her coat, exposing a long backless silver gown. I felt a little pang of anticipation, sweat suddenly prickling my brow, and adjusted my laughable outfit.
The others pushed me aside. Beth straining to see Annabelle “Doesn’t she look the business?” she cooed as our boss handed her coat to the staff and stretched out a hand to the hosts with a “Darling Cyn” (air kiss, air kiss) “and Lis, you look healthy” (no kiss). She was wearing a tailored charcoal suit, a black shirt with a red cravat, and red heels, she looked like Dietrich. Removing her long gloves, she threw them at the patient staff.
I almost missed Marianne’s entrance. She hung at the fringes of the gathering. Her bag tangled with her coat as she handed them over. She was still wearing her glasses and had opted for a light blue suit and tie; the shirt appeared wrinkled as she loosened her jacket. Lift mummy was attempting to coax her into a conversation, as Marianne stood puffing out her cheeks and looking awkwardly as if for an exit. We could not help doing a quick comparison. Clara looked so much more iconic in comparison.
We moved around the room pouring measures of Krug and fake laughing at the litany of vile remarks. A large man with a prickly beard that barely covered the fleshy folds of his chin kissed our cheek, his lips revoltingly wet. He slid his hand over my exposed rump and patted it, like a dirty uncle at a family gathering “Bloody nice tush”, his thumb and finger nipping at me like he was checking for ripeness.
“Nigel!” Clara had exclaimed in a prominent voice moving between us, “How are Candice and the girls? Becca was studying the cello, was she not?’ While he muttered begrudgingly about his daughter’s music lessons and his wife’s new kitchen, we admired our saviour.
She had a long handsome face and cast us an occasional side glance, loaded with mischief. Her dark hair hanging in the odd loose ringlet against her angled jaw. Our eyes traced the slim milky skin of her back, and out of the high sleeves of her dress hung a pair of long muscular arms. I recalled them being wrapped around my waist as her face was buried deep between our legs. A faint ebbing throb made us wobble on our heels and we smiled to ourself and as we set about refilling glasses.
The man left, and she approached us. “You didn’t say you were working this evening, my little bird. I had to hear it from Cyn,” she pursed her lips, feigning upset.
I refilled her extended glass, admiring her jewellery.
“It was last minute,” then told her she was wearing, ‘an exquisite dress, and looked very sexy.’
“You flatter me” she swept her gaze over us and then grinned, her finger toying at the straps of our cheap outfit “see they spared no expense on yours.”
“Probably worried about stains,” I added then did a little twirl that made her clap her hands in delight.
“Wunderbar” she announced, her fingertips brushing against my waist. Leant to my ear she said “I was reading your texts on the way here” then whispered “made me feucht” (wet and moist)
I grinned “Thats ideal as I was aiming for feucht.” Marianne was suddenly there, and I poured her some Champagne, trying to stop the bottle neck from wobbling and hoping that the flush that was rising my neck wouldn’t fill my cheeks.
“Didn’t notice you on the guest list Clara,” she sipped her drink, avoiding my look
“I wasn’t on it’ She shrugged. “Met with a gallery owner in the lanes and bumped into Cyn” then, sweeping an eye over me again, said “All too tempting to refuse. I think you’d agree?.”
We saw the venom flicker across Marianne’s eyes. “Caris, everything alright?” She didn’t listen to my response. She just turned and left.
“Someone needs to remove the stick from her arse,” giggled Clara. We forced a smile, then, seeing that Marianne had heard her, we quickly took our leave.
Annabelle was talking excitedly to a white haired Indian woman in a pretty shirt and Vivienne Westwood blazer. Although in her sixties, she reminded me a little of Van, a haughty smile painting her face and keen eyes surveying the room. The two were gesticulating wildly as they lit up two bright pink cigarettes in long holders and began puffing away giggling like school girls.
“Sobranie cocktail Susu you dog, haven’t seen these in years” Annabelle was saying as she fussed over her friend who had apparently directed her in a number of TV fashion spots during her modelling days. I replaced their Champagne .
The Indian woman thanked us, tapping the ash from the cigarette into a silver tray, proffered by a passing server.
“Susu and I used to smoke these in the sixties didn't we?” Anna spoke out of the side of her mouth the long pink cigarette dangling, and nudged the other woman. We were moved by the affection in our bosses face towards the woman.
“Oh you know what” she suddenly said gripping her friends hand and squeezing it, mischief flooding her “We should have them make us a Kir Royale, be just like a night at the Essoldo on North Street” then turning she called over a maid and demanded “Two Kir Royales” absentmindedly loosening her tie.
“Oh my god, remember when you tried to chat up Adam Faith?” her friend wheezed
“Was it not Gene Vincent?” Questioned Annabelle and this started a whole new round of chuckling.
Sue put out her hand for us to shake, we took it lightly “Your boss is a card isn’t she?” She said.
We nodded ‘thinking of a few other choice words beginning with C that would better describe her.
“This is Carousel, one of my dogs” snarled Anna “the archetype black sheep aren't you Caris?” We didn’t answer “A mournful wraith clutching on to beauty?” She mused and blowing out a stream of smoke, brushed the hair from my brow. Her eyes had fallen back to that ill tempered glare.
“I’m Sue. Ignore her, she’s just upset she can’t get her legs over her head anymore without a hoist.” This made us giggle.
“Cheeky bitch” laughed Anna. Then in a scoff “Anyway no need to be polite, you’ll probably be fucking this one later” waving the cigarette at me.
“Oh stop that!” She hit Annas arm frowning “I’m here for the promise of umeboshi only thank you” the two smiled at each other and we wondered if their had been more of a friendship there at one time.
Enjoying their reminiscence we hovered for a few more moments before giving them some privacy. Our exit graced with more giggles and the odd delicate nose snort and an “Oh Susu”
At dinner, I found that I’d been seated next to Clara and directly opposite Marianne. “This isn’t going to be totally fucking awkward,” I thought.
Annabelle had taken pride of place at the head of the dinner table along with a very satisfied looking Beth and apologetic looking Sue. Felicity, who had been ousted, sat next to Marianne looking twitchy. Dahlia had been placed in between two straight investment bankers that we’d heard Anna talking too about renovations on the club. The men flanked her, eying her greedily, arms slung over the back of her chair.
The chef came out before the Amuse-bouche and explained the focus of the dishes. “A coastal history celebration, using locally sourced ingredients,” she explained. Then asked if anyone have any allergies that they had not stipulated in advance.
The Amuse-bouche was tiny layers of pickled cucumber melon and seared prawn, with five sweet emulsion droplets arranged in a perfect circle. It smelt fresh and peppery and tasted divine. The plates we noticed as the food was consumed were styled with art reminiscent of Tamara de Lempicka, the table linen a heavy cotton and held with Art Deco inspired rings, even the cutlery looked chiselled out of gold.
We reached for the wrong spoon and found Clara guiding our hand. She did it so subtly that we hardly felt schooled, and threw her a coy smile that she returned. Dabbing at her lips, she leant in, “I always forget which ones” she added in her lovely deep tone.
Looking up, we found Marianne’s eyes darting in their sockets, attempting not to settle on our conversation. Then, swapping our attention to the second course, sipped the small helping of soup. It was a sweet and sour miso concoction with a light foam and decorated with interwoven radish slices.
Citrusy and pleasantly tart it ignited our hunger, and we reached for a thumb sized grain roll. Then slathering it in a malted butter, dipped it in the thin liquid. Annabelle cast out a keen frown, giving a little shake of the head, but we ignored her and, holding her gaze, ground the bread in deeper and devoured it. Some of the other guests followed suit, as if our blatant bad manners had allowed this decadence.
Clara offered us her bread roll, smiling as we took it. We made a point of explaining that we rarely ate carbohydrates.
Next came the grilled langoustines in a shellfish jelly with a scattering of sea herbs and oaky meat jus. It tasted salty and rich and made us thirsty and grateful for the palette cleanser that followed. Our head swimming with wine, we stared at the bottom of the tiny china cup, counting the minuscule painted birds that flew there. “One, two, three…” the warm bergamot and rose hip tea on our tongue turning cold, before we gave it leave to trickle down our throat.
The lift mummy had engaged Marianne in a running shoes conversation, which appeared to elevate her mood. She stabbed the little slices of monkfish, happily scooping up algae pearls. The sea green relish, that we had also found too spicy, lay bereft on the side of her plate. She chattered openly about impact protection soles, fallen arches, trail running footwear and her best running times at Park Run. It was nice to see her so animated, and we wondered why we’d never taken an interest in her running.
“Are these algae?” Inquired the butch while she masticated her food, open mouthed.
We all then got a long winded explanation from Cynthia on how it was harvested, we stifled a yawn and sipped our wine.
The servers poured us small measures of a ten-year-old Pinot Noir, changing parings with each taster, the flavours sometimes balancing, sometimes jarring our palette.
“Can we expect the umeboshi with kelp this time? that was divine,” asked Sue.
“Not this time sorry,” Cynthia replied, removing the delicate monkfish skin with her small teeth and placing it aside. A maid quickly removing it with a flourish of a large napkin.
Annabelle demanded one of the waiters refill her friends glass, her expression one of commiseration for the lack of umeboshi and she began whispering lightly to her.
A plate of caramelised roots, squid on an ink cracker, and a fermented froth came next. The bloated gathering crunching delicate wafers and sucking up spongy squid as they debated offshore investments, the disgraceful state of the seafront hotels and then rounded off with most of them complimenting the Hargreaves window treatments.
“The balance of textures in this is a delicious Cyn” we heard Clara announce, as her hand slipped off the table on to my leg, her fingers tracking up in-between them. We dropped our fork, making Marianne look up, little traces of the froth on her lips. She must have seen my eyes widen and Clara’s wicked grin. The next minute she’d huffed a low ‘I just need too..” into her napkin, dabbed at her mouth and left the table.
The gay couple devouring each bite with an undisguised look of satisfaction spent the entire meal spewing forth a litany of hushed complaints. “This fish has been toyed with,” said the tall angular one, his floppy blonde hair. “These greens are salted within an inch of their life” bemoaned his goateed lover, eyes fluttered in ecstasy while swallowing each mouthful. I wondered why these people could never admit to liking things they enjoyed. Did this carry over into their sex lives, perhaps?
“Well I much prefer my lube on the side Stephan, but use it if you must,” - “This dick is drier than a Swiss ham Teddy, don’t know whether to suck it or smoke it.” I chuckled to myself. Explaining my amusement to Clara, which brought about an unexpected guffaw, her lack in inhibition delighting me immensely.
After each course, the staff would approach from the left, remove and replace a dish. They timed it to perfection, graceful movements like a dance and all to the sound of ‘Bizet’s Carmen’ that floated from the ceiling speakers.
The last offering was a palette cleanser of quince, drizzled in one thousand flower honey and scattered in edible petals on a paper thin earl grey biscuit.
Clara offered me a taste of hers, withdrawing the tiny fork from my mouth while saying, “This really brings back memories”
We had swallowed it shyly, licking our lips. Then noticed that Marianne had taken her seat and pushed the dessert aside.
To be continued tomorrow…