Miss Anna pats my hand as we sit in the taxi. She is babbling a little, losing her thread in tangents of tangents or else going over things she has said several times. She is smiling and giggling, but it feels forced and there is a sadness in her eyes when she pauses. Miss Anna is going away for a while and I am going to stay with Miss Katya. Miss Anna's voice catches when she tells me again that Miss Katya will be firm with me, because that's how she is, but she will look after me and I am to do as I am told.
The taxi takes us to an old, huge, Georgian ex-rectory house in a rundown part of town. The buildings near it on either side seem condemned and there is only fenced off waste ground to the back. The taxi pulls into the drive - there are not huge grounds, maybe half an acre, but still a step up from your usual suburban pile. There is a gravel driveway leading to the front door, off which the paint is peeling in one or two spots. Catching me looking up and noticing the general disrepair - some brickwork is crumbling, the windows have years old grimy film and one or two are cracked or boarded up and are those weathered crenellations and gargoyled water-spouts at the top of the building? Oh my!- Miss Anna explains that Miss Katya somehow acquired the lease and has partly converted the place.
"I don't know if she's really rich or dirt poor," Miss Anna says with a hint of a shrug. As I unload my suitcase and bags, wobbling on my 4 inch heels, hefting one bag to the shoulder, changing another to the hip, shoving another in the crook of my arm, then realising I've gotten it wrong and attempting to juggle one into another hand without dropping any of them, Miss Anna heads to the door and rings the bell. I am wearing my cute cream and grey Oxford shoes, black stockings with lace garter belt, a black G-string, a tight charcoal A-line skirt and matching tight jacket and low cut cream blouse that shows the budding cleavage that the best push-up bra I own can give me. I'm kinda going for classy-sexy, but am not entirely sure I'm pulling it off.
In what feels like a pathetic fallacy, the sky is over-ripe with thunderclouds. It's that peculiar confluence of circumstances where, just before twilight, a low winter sun and a rising moon are covered by a heavy blanket of nimbostratus clouds, yet seem to suffuse them with their own luminosity. The whole sky glows yet the light on the ground is like dusk - grey and longshadowed- and most people don't actually notice, but I've always loved this type of sky. A bolt of lightning does not strike and the taxi driver does not cross himself and mutter "Dios Mio," on cue, instead saying, "Cheers, I'll be back in a couple of hours," which feels a little anticlimactic.
The door, likewise caring nothing for symbolic resonance, opens without an ominous creak, Miss Anna stepping inside after a second, but because of the shade I can't see more than a tall figure beyond her. I head up the drive and lug my clunking case up the steps leading to the door, but by the time I get there, it's shut. I wonder what to do for a good couple of minutes then, steeling my tiny resolve, knock timidly on the door. It has of course started to rain, lightly at first, but then, as the wind flares up, heavier, fat droplets start lashing into me at an angle. I pull my jacket closed and hold my bag above my head. I knock again, firmer this time. Bupkiss, again. A minute passes. Nothing I am wearing is waterproof. I ring the bell. Nada.
I start wondering if I should try and find somewhere to take shelter. 5 minutes pass, the wind ebbs then returns with a vengeful squall, sheet lightning flashes in the sky and the rain is now almost horizontal. So now with the lightning!
I mean, I know this is a test of some sort, right? It's not like I'm so unmemorable that they would have forgotten I actually exist, when the whole day, is, on one level, about me. And they can't have failed to notice the weather, given the rain is pinging and pittering off the windows. Surely, it's got to be a test. Trouble is, I can't figure out what I'm supposed to do. Am I meant to wait until I am called for to show an appropriate level of submission? I mean, I think that's the correct response here, but what if I'm supposed to find another way in, or a means of shelter to demonstrate my resourcefulness and usefulness? I'm starting to shiver now and it crosses my mind to Kobayashi Maru this shit, get a rock and smash the nearest window. Instead, I shuffle around the house, passing various windows until, after going two-thirds of the way round I find the one with a light at it. Inside, an actual fire in what looks to be an impressive fireplace and two small table lamps give the place a welcoming glow. Miss Anna is seated on a leather chair whilst a physically imposing woman reclines on a chaise longue, back to me. They are in obvious and seemingly relaxed conversation, Miss Anna taking a sip from a fluted glass, leaning in, nodding, then throwing her head back in laughter.
The scene is cosy and almost domestic, until I passive-aggressively Tiny Tim my way into it by smudging my nose against the pane and tapping with a nervous, quiet but insistent finger.
Miss Anna looks up, catches my eye, then says something to the other occupant of the room, who shrugs. Miss Anna rises and gestures to the front of the house, which I rush to, relief squishing down any resentment that had begun to rise.
"Oh you poor thing, you look frozen. Come in, come in to the drawing room. I thought you had come in behind me and were off somewhere exploring your new home," says Miss Anna, unconvincingly. I refrain from pointing out that although I've never felt more like one, I am not actually a foster dog.
The entrance hallway where I drop my sodden bags is dark, with a tiled floor and two swing doors (one of which is broken), that leads to a wood floored central hallway with 4 or 5 doors leading off it, and a large staircase ahead. A corridor runs around the side of the staircase and off to the left, although it's a bit difficult to see more from here. The whole place smells a little musty. As Miss Anna leads me to a door at the back of the hallway, I run a wet finger along the wall and a squidge of grimy dust comes off.
The warmth inside the room hits me like walking into a wall and I instantly start shivering again as my temperature starts rising.
"Poor wet thing," says Miss Anna. "Stand in front of the fire." It is half request, half command, but I do so happily, following her there and turning so my back is to the mantle.
The room is large and sumptuous- wooden floor, an expensive looking rug, two two-seater leather sofas, a writing desk, a bureau, bookcases, and a chaise longue. And on that chaise lounge, recumbent (I hate to use such a wanky word, but in the circumstances it's the only one that will quite do), is a striking woman who is watching me intently.
She is tall. Even when she's- ahem- recumbent (and she recumbs like no-one I've seen outside of posed photographs, queenly and imperious), I can see that. Maybe 6'2 or 6'3. Not lightly built. I hate the word 'voluptuous,' but again, here we are. In my head I hear Jack Lemmon saying "She's like Jello on springs!" and I suppress a nervous giggle. Wide shoulders, though, and there is muscle underneath the curves. A -ahem- plenitudinous body that strains just the exact right amount against its well-fitted confines. Late thirties, maybe early forties, maybe older, but well maintained if so. Strong but beautiful features. Not pretty, not cute, not handsome, but actually beautiful. She
must
have been a model at some point, when younger, thinner and (was she ever?) naive and pliable. The planes of her face are just... remarkable. Shoulder length hair, black as sin, but somehow elegant yet effortless. Dramatic makeup (dark eyeshadow, almost gothy contouring, scarlet lips) accentuates the look until it's positively vampiric.
Her eyes flick to me and, as she meets my gaze, I feel... what do I feel?... She is stunning and I literally feel
stunned
for a second. She is
sooo
beautiful, it's unsettling. I feel like I've been scanned, like I've been X-rayed. Like someone has seen deep inside of me. I am trembling now, and not through the change in temperature.
She hasn't said anything yet, but if she were to speak with the voice of Shere Khan in the first Disney Jungle Book, I would not be at all surprised. Or the snake, I can't remember what it's called. Something subtle shifts in her expression and her face smoothly changes its aspect into one of semi-ironic detachment. She looks at me like this for barely a half-second, and I feel like I've been released from a Star Trek tractor beam, then she turns to Miss Anna.
"So tell me Anna," and her accent is heavily Eastern European or Russian, "what are your plans for the next 6 months?"
"Well, I have to go away, with work, as you know, ah ha ha." Fake, brittle laugh. "No, I'm looking forward to it. Relocating to a new city, a new country. Challenging, of course, but such fun!"
A look passes between the two, which has so much history I struggle to interpret it.
