It was another lively day at our Mayfair offices. We were pitching for the roll out campaign for a new TV series based on the famous Russian detective-cum-spy Erast Fandorin (a bit of a Sherlock type character but more dashing – a shoe in ladies man if ever there was one!). My boss has a keen instinct for the theatrical and a deep appreciation of visual imagery and so had pleaded with me (or rather instructed me) to be part of the pitch team to emphasise my eastern European credentials – as an ice cold, blue-eyed and high cheek-boned blonde. That I could do. I was, he said, to appear refined and aristocratic, sensual and alluring. Again, tick that box.
If you recall, I am a bit of spoilt daddy's girl. Or at least I was. And that brings with it a kind of detachment and inbred sense of entitlement which can come across as aloofness. I also inherited by mothers vulnerability (so appealing to men and women alike) and modelling looks (much desired by men and women alike) and teamed it with the grace and poise of a dancer's physique . I had my very own fashion sense – a blend of the classic femme fatale movie star looks and the more obvious porn queen look of today's fashion. I find that my mother dressed to please herself and be admired by her contempories and fashionistas, whereas I dressed with more of an emphasis on how a man would ideally dress a woman. A way that exaggerates femininity and sexuality. Probably a generation thing!
My contribution to the pitch was not to be based on any commercial instincts and marketing flair – though I had done much of the basic creative work and would continue to work on the pitch behind the scenes - but to be eye candy. In the words of the big boss "to change the dynamic of the pitch."
So, you are wondering, what on earth I was wearing. To be clear, he left the look entirely to me. Just be "unavailable but desirable honey" is all he said. I mused long and hard on what to wear. How to create an emotional and physical distance and to be "Russian." I googled beautiful Russian women and a pattern, or a certain look, became apparent. It's a different look to a Croatian woman who have a natural beach babe beauty...Russian women are more glacial for sure, but more obviously "booby" and "leggie." More suited to cosmopolitan cities. And money. The boobs were the problem. I am 100% natural unlike the pneumatic shape loved by Russian women, typically heavy breasted, with slim waists and enhanced bottoms.
The solution was a tight fitting, long sleeved, silk mini dress with a roll neck – clinging to my body so the shape of my breasts could be clearly seen, and not buried by clothes. The dress was tight enough to show the tone of my stomach muscles and so not only left little to the imagination but was totally unforgiving on underwear – forcing me to wear just a g string. Think of the dress as no more than the thinnest of barriers between a silent gaze and a naked body.
The roll neck had the effect of lifting the dress so it emphasised how short it was (an optical illusion). My long legs were thus given maximum exposure as the focal point of the imagery, with a serious pair of stiletto heels to emphasise the effect. My legs are toned and very slim (of course). Through matching fingerless gloves bright red nail polish peeped, adding a dramatic look being somewhat out of place in a business meeting.
A simple silver chain around my neck with a cluster of (fake) diamonds added sophistication. Don't you just love costume jewellery. And a matching ring. I wore my hair long and straightened so all the natural curl was ironed out. The effect against the darkness of the mini dress was startling and my hair fell down to the swell of my breasts. I had applied paler than usual foundation to my face accentuating the red blood lipstick and my cheekbones. A black "hardly there" gauze veil held in place with a simple diamond tiara band hovered over my eyes. Large drop earrings completed the outfit.
The effect was simply to entice. To be cinematic.
Judging from the reception around the table my chosen attire hit the spot. I caught my boss's eyes and a little nod of appreciation. More importantly I held my gaze steadily as the delegates from the film studio ran their eyes over me, some none too subtly, and when I had to contribute I spoke slowly, with a trace of my Croatian accent, and softly so they had to concentrate on what I was saying. I heard afterwards from colleagues that the effect was mesmerising.
(And, even though the "set up" may be an insult to some women, and certainly to my own intellect, I embrace any opportunity to use the physical gifts bestowed on me to my personal advantage, on the basis that if I help my boss he will help me in my career).
The meeting went well, was completed in quick order, agreement reached and the decision taken to retire to the cocktail bar at the Mayfair Hotel, just off Berkeley Square. I took off the veil and grabbed my leather jacket, and jumped into the first waiting taxi and within 10 minutes was sat at the bar drinking a nice rose champagne and making small talk when I felt a hand on the small of my back and a voice said "Excuse me, forgive me, you are Tihana are you not? I don't know if you remember me but we met at one of Tom's parties at the Monte Carlo beach club."
My heart skipped as beat and I felt the room close in me. I looked around as if time had been stood still for a second. I had not been Tihana for many years – Tihana was my alias for when I conducted an affair with my own father as his consort, companion, lover and girlfriend after my mother had passed. That's another story. Another life. Or so I thought.
"I'm sorry, but I am afraid you are mistaken. I'm Charli" and I extended my hand as if introducing myself to someone for the very first time. My smile open and friendly.
The man, in his late fifties, in decent enough shape, well dressed in a suit paused, took in the group I was with, smiled and fished out a business card and, as he handed it to me, simply said:
"My apologies Tihana, I mean Charli" (he smiled as he corrected his mistake). "It is just that you remind me so much of a very pleasant evening I spent in the company of another woman that was nearly as beautiful as you. Please, I am in London for a few days and it would be my pleasure to apologise properly over dinner. Text me if you are free to join me."
And he turned, nodded to a small entourage of what looked like a security detail and left without another word.
Lola, our pocket sized sex bomb and sometime receptionist leant over to me and whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear something to the effect that that was a very polished pick up and was I going to take up the invitation. Lola had a long term crush on me and as so often before had manipulated an invite to join the party in the hope that I might take proper and more considered notice of her.
I laughed.
"Yes", I replied "very smooth and I liked that mistaken identity line. Very imaginative indeed." I smiled at Lola with affection, and with a hint of lust. "You never know, my life has been rather dull in recent months."
"You look very beautiful today, C. More than usual. The unobtainable look suits you."
"Thanks Lola."
I left her comment hanging for a second, then almost without thinking added "You know Lola, I am not unobtainable. I am, believe it or not, very shy and insecure and I dress up like I do not to attract attention, as some might think, but in fact to scare people off. Many guys - and yes girls - are intimidated by someone that looks great and dresses sexually and I like it like that. Because I find dealing with people difficult." I reached out and took her hand holding her fingers lightly. "Don't give up on me babes."
Lola blushed. I of course knew she fancied me, even desired me, but she had never been with a woman before and was confused about her feelings and whether she was somehow broken.
"Well," she replied, hesitating for a moment whilst debating what to say, "He wasn't exactly intimidated was he?"
"No," I replied,"He wasn't." And at that, Lola turned away from me, struggling with her own feelings and perhaps jealousy.
"No," I repeated to myself, "Our Count of Reiberg is not the intimidated sort."
My thoughts tuned to that balmy night some 3 years ago in Monte Carlo, when my great love affair was disintegrating and I had tried to level out with a few too many glasses of champagne and vodka shots. I had tried to make Tom jealous, to show him what he would lose, by flirting with other men that night. Tom struggling with the guilt from our forbidden sexual intimacy, had tried to show disinterest in my flirting. God only knows how much he was tearing up inside. But he never showed it.
