Dark Descent into Desire

by J. J. Sorel

  “Hey, pretty girl,” I said, looking at Lilly, who really had blossomed into a beautiful woman. Her blond locks waved down her back, and those big blue eyes danced with glee.

  She placed her arm around my waist and drew me close, as a loving sister would.

  I nodded at Reggie. “Welcome.”

  “Thanks for inviting me. It’s a grand old place.” He bounced the soccer ball, and the children came running.

  “Thought I’d kick a ball around. You don’t mind? You’re not worried about the grounds or anything?”

  I shook my head decisively. “Why would I be?”

  He shrugged. “Just that my family get a bit uppity when we play cricket or soccer on their well-manicured lawns.” He used an exaggerated upper-class accent, making us giggle.

  Max bent down and tried to pick up the ball. “Come on, little man. I’ll show you how to bend it.”

  Reggie dribbled the soccer ball along, and the children chased him.

  “He’s great around kids,” I said.

  Lilly watched on with a big sunny smile. “I’m so fucking blessed to have met him. He’s gorgeous.”

  She fanned her face. “And so giving. And he’s devoted to Jazzie.”

  “I was hoping Brent would come,” I said.

  “He had to work. He said he’ll try to pop in tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that. He’s part of the family. I hope he knows that.”

  “Oh, you know my brother. He’s not a fan of the snobby upper classes.”

  “But we’re not that, you and I.”

  “No. We’re not. But look at us.”

  “Yes… look at us.” I beamed.

  We both stared at each other smiling and hugged.

  Yes, life had delivered in the most surprising way.

  Out of waste and neglect, beautiful—sometimes even astoundingly unique—flowers bloom.

  And to think it all had started out of desperation at a place called the Cherry Orchard.

  THE END

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  J. J. Sorel

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  J. J. Sorel

  This is one finely scribed novel that is rich in steamy erotica and yet goes beyond the usual Chick Lit realm because of the fine mystery that ties it together. Recommended. Grady Harp from San Francisco Book Review.

  Copyright © 2019 J. J. Sorel

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “They always are, darling. The exciting ones always are.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I leaned against the wall, panting, wondering what had possessed me to walk the entire ten flights. Did those ten years of dance classes account for nothing? Pausing at the landing, I adjusted my ponytail and smoothed back my hair. Why the employment agent had asked for a photo with my hair down was a question that kept revolving around my busy mind. Despite being thin on detail, the employment agent had requested that I be punctual, courteous, and not ask questions. That last clause made my ears prick. Knowing my inquisitive nature, I’d have to watch myself.

  The only thing I knew about the position was that I’d be required to keep an elderly person company four hours a day—from four until eight in the evening. For that, I would receive the equivalent of a full-time wage.

  “Full-time wage” flashed before me like a lit-up billboard. A flourish of anticipation swept through me, thinking of all the things I could do with my spare time. There’d also be no more running late in the mornings only to be met with a nasty scowl. Or working for a boss who made a sport of inflicting misery. No more forty-hour week morphing into sixty hours. Or the creepy, drunken messages while I slept, reminding me of all the tasks that were humanly impossible to complete in eight hours, let alone two hours.

  It had been one month of hell. Therefore, I couldn’t believe my luck when I received a call from an agent offering me a position that required someone for conversation and to read stories. I had no idea who I would be working for. Not even the gender—although the “hair down” request did make me wonder if it was a creepy, lecherous man, something Cassie, my best friend suggested to me. But then, she tended toward the melodramatic. Of course, I accepted the role within a breath, because being a recent graduate and in debt to my eyeballs, I needed a job.

  Opening the door of the stairwell, I stepped into the hallway and entered into a plush walk down memory lane. Boasting the elegant sophistication of Art Deco, the dimly lit interior exemplified that classic era of Fifth Avenue architecture.

  I stood at the door and glanced down at my watch. Noting that I still had a few minutes, I wondered if “punctual” meant exactly on time. Or could one be early? As my knuckles hovered over the door, I lowered my hand and decided to wait. While doing so, I studied the tinted-glass light fittings that jutted out of the wall casting shadowy light over golden frames of women in flowing gowns.

  Just as the minute hand hit the hour, I took a deep breath and knocked. After a few moments, I heard slow, shuffling steps, and an older woman opened the door.

  “You must be Ava Rose,” she said, holding the door open for me to enter.

  “I am,” I said with an awkward smile, holding out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  As her frail, wrinkly hand landed on mine, her eyes traveled to my face and remained there as if taking in every detail. I even started to worry that there was a remnant of jam from the donut I’d scarfed down earlier or something up my nose.

  “I’m Aggie.” She stretched out her arm for me to enter.

  “Oh, that’s short for Agatha.”

  “It is,” she replied with a hint of a smile. Something told me that Aggie didn’t do too much smiling.

  All it took was one step into that beguiling, time-trapped room for an eerie sensation to flash through me. It was a feeling similar to déjà vu, or entering a museum filled with the pungency of decay. Not that the room stank; if anything, it smelled like roses.

  Slender, with upright posture, Aggie, who I assumed was in her seventies, possessed an elegant bearing matching the opulence of her surroundings.

  She pointed to a curvaceous armchair. “Please, sit. Can I offer you a drink?” She raised a brow, which made me wonder if she meant of the alcoholic variety.

  “No. I’m good. Thanks.”

  “I might have one, then,” she said, hovering about.

  “Please, do. Of course,” I replied, unsure if she’d actually asked for my permission or not.

  Although slow, her stride was confident and balanced. Wearing pink bell-bottoms and a silky floral shirt, Aggie had a stylish if not unique air about her. With that plait of gray hair twirled into a bun above her head, she reminded me of an ageing ballerina, especially with her long neck and lifted spine. I could see that Aggie had once been beautiful, especially her glistening aquamarine eyes, which, although faded with age, sparkled with a healthy dose of curiosity.

  She stood by a silver trolley, picked up a shaker, and poured its contents into a martini glass. After taking a sip, she strolled back and sat opposite me. “A weakness of mine.” She held the
glass to her painted lips. “Do you know how to mix a martini?”

  I sat up. “Um… no. I can’t say I do. But I’m a quick learner.”

  She nodded. “Good. That’s part of the job. From four until eight. I like my martinis, and…” She opened a pretty silver box by her side and took out a cigarette. “I smoke.” She lit her cigarette with a flick of a lighter. “I promise to leave the terrace doors open.” A hint of a smile came and went.

  As I watched Aggie puff deeply on her cigarette while clasping the stem of an elegant V-shaped glass, I thought I’d traveled into a scene from a 1950s film.

  While the sun filtered through the pink living room, my ordinary life in a tiny bedsit located somewhere in the bowels of the city, where only those scrounging about for their next meal lived, seemed like a distant memory.

  Sipping pensively on her martini, Aggie kept switching her attention from me to the expansive view of the Hudson, which was visible through the beveled-glass French doors that opened out to a balcony the size of a small room.

  Sneaking a look at Aggie sucking on her cigarette, I thought about the past, when people hadn’t heard about cigarettes causing cancer or, if they had, chose to ignore the warnings. That was a far cry from my world, where everyone, including me, stressed about everything.

  My guide to happiness read something like this: living a healthy life to at least ninety, which would mean not smoking; shots of tequila only on special occasions, and surrendering them entirely after one had found her dream man; having lots of money; a great husband who supplied one with enough seed for at least two beautiful children whom one could brag about; and multiple orgasms on tap.

  “My, you have a busy mind,” said Aggie.

  My brows drew in sharply. “Excuse me?”

  She chuckled. “I can see that pretty head of yours ticking away.” Before I could respond, Aggie added, “Now, first things first. I don’t like questions. But this being your first day, I’ll allow you a few.”

  All I heard was that it was my first day, which meant the job was mine, even though I had to meet Justin, my boyfriend, at six. But rather than mention that to Aggie, I decided to text him later.

  Four hours with an intriguing, albeit an intense woman didn’t seem too shabby at all—overlooking the potential of a premature death due to passive smoking. It also meant that my pay would start immediately, thus removing the unpleasant task of asking my mother for a loan. The thought of that had me mentally popping a champagne cork, given that each time my mom handed me cash, it came with a lecture about snaring Justin into marrying me, even if it meant forgetting to take my pill.

  At twenty-four, I was hardly ready for motherhood, nor to be the wife of a man who was more interested in his career, buddies, and ball games, interspersed with a quick, hard fuck here and there. When it came to tenderness, Justin, who was probably at the time pumping his fist at the ball game on TV, missed out.

  “I have the job?” I asked.

  “Don’t look so surprised.” Aggie butted out her cigarette into a crystal ashtray.

  “Do you mind if I ask what you’d like me to do?” A meek smile crossed my lips. “I mean, other than making martinis.”

  She shrugged. “Just keep me company. I wanted someone young around. That way I can hear about the latest fads. I watch TV, but it bores me. It actually makes me angry at times. All that silly deconstructed, incomprehensible language.”

  I nodded. “It can be rather shallow and pitched to a lower form of intelligence.”

  “Yes… So true.” She studied me again. “It’s as if we’ve all become dull-witted. Or is it that the dimwits have taken over the controls?”

  “Maybe,” I replied vaguely. Although politics was not my thing, at forty dollars an hour, I would try and give it my best.

  “Ava Rose. That’s a pretty name. Has a nice ring about it. That’s what attracted me, and the photo, of course.”

  I sat forward. “I did wonder why you requested an image with my hair down.”

  “Now you’re being plain cheeky.” Her eyes had a sting in them. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious.

  “I’m… um… sorry,” I stammered.

  Her face softened. “The short answer is, I don’t like ugly people around me. I couldn’t stand the idea of someone with cropped hair painted in a rainbow of colors. Or tattoos…” She studied my blouse. “You don’t have tattoos, do you?” Her face expressed concern.

  Reminding myself that in Aggie’s time, women weren’t pierced or tattooed, I answered, “No, I don’t.”

  “Good.”

  Seeing that her attention remained on my body, I asked, “Is there any specific way I should dress?”

  Aggie’s head pulled back as if I’d asked a stupid question. “Now you’re just poking fun.”

  “Oh no, I mean. I didn’t… I wasn’t being facetious.”

  She laughed. “You’re sensitive. I like that. I believe you studied English literature. That appealed to me. I like an intelligent, well-read mind.”

  “Have you a favorite?” I asked.

  “You of all would know how difficult that is to answer. It’s like asking what one’s favorite color is. It depends on the mood, doesn’t it?” Her voice had an edge of authority to it that scraped a little. “Wuthering Heights,” she said. “I’d like you to read that for me.”

  That made me sit up. “Oh… that would be a labor of love. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Once again, she studied me for what seemed a long while. “Good. Tomorrow, we’ll start with that.”

  “I’ll bring along a copy,” I said, pleased that at last, I had something to offer that at least coincided with my degree.

  “No need. I have several.” Her eyes passed by my face and landed on a dark wooded bookshelf filled with gold-scrolled hardback books.

  I went over to take a look.

  Aggie pointed. “You’ll find them on the top shelf.”

  Looking up, I discovered hardback copies and a large selection of paperbacks, all of the same title. “You must be a fan.”

  “I used to collect them.” She crooked her finger. “Come and sit. Let me get acquainted with you. But first, how about we start with that martini?”

  When she began to rise from her chair, I said, “Oh, there’s no need. I can do it.”

  “I’m not an invalid, dear girl.” She rose and gestured for me to follow her. “You’ll need some ice.”

  “This is a large apartment. I notice you have another floor.” I looked up at the striking wooden staircase with an exquisite black filigree railing.

  “It’s a penthouse. Big and lofty. I need plenty of room to fill all of my memories.”

  “Oh, you have a lot of things?” I asked.

  “I have. But that’s not what I meant.” She looked at me enigmatically, which made me bite my tongue, as a ton of questions banked up.

  We walked down a hallway, the walls of which were laden in oil paintings and watercolors. There was certainly plenty to take in, and the first things I noticed once I entered the large kitchen were stained-glassed French doors that opened out to a balcony. My eyes landed on the terrace of the neighboring white-bricked building, where a cat snoozed amongst a clutter of ceramic pots filled with creepers and plants. With golden sunlight filtering in the stainless-steel surfaces sparkled. “So, this is how the filthy rich live?” I thought to myself.

  Aggie, who must have noticed my wide-eyed appreciation, said, “It’s an opulent home. My late husband owned fields of oil. I’m what’s known as obscenely wealthy. Not that I’m bragging.” A faint smile grew on her face as she pressed a button on the fridge door, and ice spilled into the silver bucket she held.

  I went over to help. “I can carry that if you like,”

  She handed it over to me. “Good. Now you know where the ice is. There’s plenty to eat if you like. I have Louisa, who comes and cooks for me every day. You probably won’t see her. She leaves at three o’clock. Apart from Louisa, there’s
Jennifer, my cleaner, who always leaves by midday. After that, I am here alone.” She gestured for me to return to the living room.

  Following Aggie’s instructions with the greatest of care, I rattled the ice in the cool stainless-steel receptacle and poured it into the stemmed glass. I carried it carefully over to the terrace, where Aggie sat in a white cane peacock chair and set the glass down by her side.

  I bit into a nail, watching with a furrowed brow as she lifted the glass to her mouth. “Now, why are you standing there watching me?” she asked.

  Taking a step back, I said, “Sorry, I just want to make sure you like it.”

  She savored the liquid for a moment and then nodded. “Good. Very Good. So much better than all the others.”

  “All the others?” I asked, competing with the rowdy street sounds below.

  Aggie pointed to the matching peacock chair next to a large terra cotta pot of creeping roses. “Please. Sit. You make me nervous standing over me like that.”

  As I went to sit, Aggie said, “Before you do, however, I insist you try one.”

  I frowned. “A martini, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. I don’t normally drink at this hour,” I said, feeling stupid for some reason.

  “Well, for today, let’s break the rules. Live dangerously,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

  I shrugged. “Okay. A small one, then.”

  After I poured a half glass from the remnants in the shaker, I took a tiny sip and grimaced. It was sharp, cool, and edgy, a little like Aggie.

  She laughed. “Oh, dear girl. The look on your face. I have to admit when I was your age, I didn’t have a taste for them either. My late husband’s cohort of snobs introduced me to them. Or was it that I introduced myself to them in order to cope with his boring friends?” She said that almost to herself with a chuckle. She switched her focus to the street below. “Oh look, there goes Cecil and his strange little dog. Don’t they look like each other?”