Read by Helen Belbin
At the stroke of midday, Madame Florizel burst into my bedroom and demanded I sneer at a dildo.
“Help yourself,” I mumbled pitifully from under the duvet, sliding a hand out to gesture feebly towards my wardrobe. The previous evening I had attended my friend Binky deWinter’s media launch party and the usual combination of alcohol, chemicals and generous expense accounts had left me feeling somewhat frazzled.
“Not any dildo, Natalya, you chump!” Florizel snapped derisively. “This particular one is important. I shall be waiting in your living room to discuss this with you when you have made yourself presentable. You have ten minutes.”
Well, I ask you. That’s really not the sort of wake-up one needs when experiencing the afternoon after the early morning before.
“I have a feeling this might be of assistance.” A calm voice gently caressed my ears: it was Lashes, my gentlewoman’s personal gentlewoman.
And what a marvel that woman is. Sometimes I struggle to think how I got by before she entered my life. She’s efficient, discreet and brainier than a box of owls, with a libido the size of Sweden.
“Past lovers have advised that this powder has been of assistance in similar circumstances.” Lashes continued, handing me a small wrap containing a light blue powder.
Have I said what a marvel she is? After just two toots of the powder, the fog seemed to clear from my eyes, the shakes subsided and all seemed right again in my particular corner of God’s creation.
“Dashed marvellous stuff, that.” I applauded almost immediately, “You could market it and make a fortune.”
Lashes nodded, accepting the compliment, “Regrettably, the current legal status of most of the ingredients makes that impossible.”
I commiserated while I dressed, donning a smart shirt and casual tweed suit, finishing the look off with a shepherd check tie and stylish co-respondent shoes.
“Lashes, tu approuves?” I asked, displaying the full ensemble.
“Worthy of Marlene,” she replied. Which is high praise from Lashes. So, with her flattering words ringing in my ears, I braced myself and walked into the living room.
I don’t know if there are many folk in London who haven’t heard of Madame Florizel, but for the benefit of those lucky few who have never come across her, just imagine the most formidable headmistress you have ever met. Now double it and add money. She owns several of Soho’s respectably disrepectable nightclubs, three saunas and six MPs. More importantly she knows my father. And that makes her trouble.
She grimaced the moment she saw my outfit. “It does so disappoint me, Natalya. This lifestyle you lead. It makes me think about your father, and the hopes he had when he sent you to England.”
Ah Yes. Dearest Papa. Packed me off from Russia when I was five to an all-girl English boarding school. There to be raised as a perfect English princess. Well, he got two thirds of that at least.
“If your father knew what you were getting up to here,” she shot a poisonous glance at Lashes, “... well, I’m not sure he would be quite so willing to subsidise this nonsense.”
That’s why Madame Florizel is such a menace. One word from her to Papa in Moscow and it’s curtains for my allowance. Thankfully for yours truly, the woman is as corrupt as a porn site pop-up.
“However,“ she continued, “I would worry what shock such news would do to the man. If I could be persuaded that you were making yourself useful here in London I would feel more relaxed about not keeping him informed.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed, “so that’s why you want me to sneer disapprovingly at a lady’s pleasure wand?”
I could see her resist the urge to roll her eyes at my flippancy. “There has just arrived in London a particular rare antique “pleasure wand”. It was made for Catherine the Great herself, and experts believe that it was modelled on her favourite horse. However if a kind soul was to put about the rumour that it might not be the genuine article I can grab myself a bargain. Right from under the nose of Madame LeTouche.”
I don’t think I need to say much about when Madames fight Madames. It’s like a scene in Jurassic Park. Only less fluffy.
And that was why, just a short amble through Soho later, I found myself in Kenny Branagh’s Erotic Emporium trying to look askance at a priceless Mahogany lollipop.
“Tsk,” I sneered, most emphatically and convincingly.
“I beg your pardon,” the assistant gasped.
“I said tsk,” I repeated, “and I jolly well meant it. I can’t believe Branagh’s now sunk to trying to hoodwink the decent folk of London with forged minge batons.”
The assistant was clearly hurt by my tsk-ing, and did his best to convince me I had erred. Extolling the virtues of the craftsmanship, he passed me the plucky vaginal adventurer so that I could judge things close up.
It was then I heard the click of a camera.
“AH-HA!”
I turned to see the odious Viktor Spargo standing in the doorway. Spargo and I are not friends. He’s a politician with certain aspirations regarding UK independence and at the few dinner parties where I’ve heard him outline his policies I may have implied that I felt his proposals had all the sense of a senile blancmange.
“I knew that if I followed you in Soho, I’d catch you up to something you’d pay good money to stop your father seeing. And now I’ve caught you buying that… that.. husband-replacing lady-stick.”
“Dash it, Spargo,” I responded in protest, “whatever happened to your good old-fashioned British decency?”
This seemed to strike a nerve, and the chump’s features drooped. He then had the brass to try and justify himself. It seemed that his recent attempt to stage a Patriot’s Carnival had been a financial disaster. The fathead had not anticipated that a float carrying the Rochester Rotary Club’s Minstrel Show was not quite the thing to send along the Brixton Road. As a result the man had been stuck for some quite considerable damages.
Unfortunately the toad could not be swayed from his threat that if I didn’t assist him financially, his photo may find its way to my father. This is precisely the sort of news that is best dealt with by turning to drink, so I took a taxi straight home to get Lashes to shake up one of her marvellous cocktails.
However, no sooner had I walked through the door in my flat, when Harry “Hat-trick” Thomas - a handsome producer friend of mine, leapt up from my sofa.
“What ho, you divine creature!” he yelled, stroking his hipster moustache. “How’s tricks, what!”
At this point, I felt the need to unburden myself of the day’s travails, and how this whole episode involving a Madame, a crooked politician and a valuable cunny butler might not pan out golden for yours truly.
“Well aren’t you glad I came over?” smarmed Hat-trick. “I wanted to ask if you will reconsider my offer. We’re just about to start shooting the next series of my reality show ‘Pretty Little Things of Chelsea’ and I’d still love you to be on board.”
That’s the problem with Hat-trick. He can be a riot at parties, but when it comes to trying to inveigle me into his dreadful television programme he’s the purple pim.
“Of course,” he mulled ominously, “You’d need to be a bit more feminine. Grow your hair, wear designer heels and expensive little black numbers. Play at being ‘Daddy’s English Rose’ I can see you in a gripping love triangle with the dashing Sebastian Felch and the scheming Chlamidia Winchester.”
See, what I mean? Ghastly stuff. But at this precise moment in time – staring disinheritance in the , my resolve weakened and I nearly signed up to the whole farrago.
That’s when Lashes quietly coughed in the corner.
“If I may interject,” she began, “but if you are considering the issue of Catherine the Great’s Equine Stimulator I believe that the threat posed by Madame Florizel has somewhat diminished. Shortly before you returned, ma'am, I telephoned Branagh’s Erotic Emporium and arranged for it to be delivered, as a gift from yourself, to Madame LeTouche.”
I gasped. Had Lashes gone mad?
She clearly saw my shock but calmly continued, “It struck me that in the current circumstances, Madame LeTouche would be a fine ally to cultivate. You see, she is currently being repeatedly personally intimate with your father.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed, “He’s landed himself yet another Madame!”
Lashes nodded, “He does rather appear to have a taste for them.”
“A taste is hardly the word I’d use,” I commented, “I mean, I have a taste for Chunky KitKats but I know to stop at seven.”
“Very true, Ma’am,” Lashes replied, “However, despite his womanising reputation, I have heard from the staff on his super-yacht that he is particularly taken with her. Certainly, I feel any tale sent by Madame Florizel could be effectively dismissed by an ally at close quarters.”
“That’s all excellent, Lashes,” I exclaimed, “but it still leaves the nuisance Victor and his dashed photo.”
“I would not worry about that either. I have it on good authority that Mr Spargo is a regular visitor to an athletic young gentleman named Rahul, who, if the missives left in phone booths are to be believed, promises an anal experience of some considerable merit.”
At this point, Hat-trick chipped in, “Hang on, that can’t be right. Isn’t that Spargo fellow the person who blames any bout of inclement weather on excessive gayness?”
“Indeed,” nodded Lashes.
“Good lord,” I smiled, the penny dropping. “The man can hardly lead a Far Right movement blaming homosexuality for bad weather if he and Rahul are secretly knocking out typhoons on the sly. Sorry Hat-trick, looks like you’ll need to find another leading lady!”
Hat-trick harrumphed and exited with an air that, if not exactly disgruntled, was far from being gruntled.
“Well Lashes,” I said, my usual bonhomie entirely restored, “I think this calls for a gin and tonic!”
She coughed discreetly. “I have already taken the liberty of preparing one, Ma'am. Treble Tanqueray, of course.”
I looked down and there the bally thing was, lime wedge and all, sitting in my hand. I took a healthy swig. “By Crikey Lashes, that hits the spot! What do you put in 'em?”
“They are a labour of love, mistress,” she said, and one sultry eye fluttered in a wink. I began to feel a certain what-is-it in my nether regions as the Tanqueray worked its magic.
“Capital!” I purred, “Tell you what - how about you take charge in the bedroom tonight?”
She nodded, “I have already installed my equipment, ma’am.”
I raised my glass in salute, “Very good, Lashes!”
(c) Alan Graham, May 2015
Alan Graham studied "Creative Writing" and "Economics" at UEA and is still unsure which discipline relies on make-believe the most. He currently lives and works in London.
Helen Belbin (left): Training: Drama Studio London & Northumbria University. Theatre:Verdict (Agatha Christie theatre Company); Northern Star (Finborough Theatre); The Trial of Marie Antoinette (Once Theatre); Beauty & the Beast, Forest Creatures (Puppet Lab); A Christmas Carol (St George’s West Players); Battle in the Hills, The Storm Watchers (Theatre Enigma). Radio: HR, Saturday Review, Front Row (BBC Radio 4).
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