Sequela

by Cleland Smith

  Then, something that didn't fit: a golem hand slithering up her heel, grabbing round her ankle. Alexis looked round. It was the girl in the lube pit. She couldn't remember her name – some acquaintance of Will's. Alexis watched as the girl slid her hand up and down the back of her calf, focused on the insistent pressure and let its effect roll up through her body, dispelling the cool in her blood. The girl was beautiful – short slicked black hair, classic hour-glass figure, wasp waist. Alexis looked up at Kester. Will had come up for air and they were both watching the girl hungrily as Will pounded away at him with one hand. A sudden heat flushed up over Alexis' shoulders to the top of her head. She kicked out at the girl, just managing to hold back, make it playful, then turned and slid down into the pit with her. Leaning in close to the girl's ear she opened her mouth and bit the lobe, pressing until she felt the girl flinch.

  'You in it to catch something?' Alexis said in her ear.

  The girl leaned back from her and smiled a "yes" in a pathetically staged way, then looked over at Kester. How many times a night did she practise that in the mirror? Every time she visited the toilets to pop one for another desperate exchange. Alexis leaned in again.

  'You cut yourself?' she asked, sitting back in time to see the girl's face spasm as if she had bitten a caper.

  Alexis tried to smile, felt that she was snarling and laughed. She put a hand to the girl's chin and pulled her over towards Kester and Will. When they were close enough, she took control. So the little bitch wanted to catch something. Well, Alexis was the gatekeeper. Access to Kester for this tail-chaser was through her only.

  Alexis performed the transfer with a savage impersonal smile. In her head she toyed with the reality of what she was doing, ignored the sensations she would normally revel in and turned it to pure transaction: extraction of fluids, preparation of infection site, application. She was porn flick, paper cup, hook, speculum and syringe: a one-woman service.

  Transaction complete, she withdrew from the girl to kneel at the edge of the pit, knees wide, hands on hips, and watched as the girl recovered from her prone position, moving tentatively. Reaching forward, Alexis stroked a stray lock of the girl's hair back into place and gave her chin a little lift with the hook of her index finger. Then there were hands around her ankles again, strong this time. She found herself pulled backwards into the pit and into Kester's arms. She leaned her head backwards so it rested on his shoulder, her mouth close to his ear.

  'I said does this compensate for the meetings?' she said again, watching the girl as she sat up on the edge of the pit opposite.

  The girl's face was in conflict, trying to ease herself back into the mood. She was wondering perhaps if this was common in London, if she would catch something worthwhile, what the damage was.

  'Just a scratch,' Alexis mouthed at her with a wink, running her hands along Kester's arms where they encircled her.

  'Definitely,' Kester said.

  His voice was hot. Alexis pressed her head against his. They would go back to the hotel soon, wash together, dry each other and feel skin properly – soft resistance, the tickle of a touch on near-invisible hair, friction and grip.

  -o-

  'Did you rip that girl?' Kester asked as he held out Alexis' coat for her. 'Did you ask her permission?'

  Alexis raised her eyebrows. He hadn't shown any concern at the time. She smirked and shrugged. It wasn't something she had done before but the girl wasn't to know that – it was common enough in more extreme circles. And the girl didn't know they weren't carrying, so she needn't suspect Alexis' motives.

  'More theatre?' Kester asked.

  Alexis shrugged again. She thought for a minute.

  'Word'll get around we've brought something interesting with us.'

  'And when we've fucked the other half of Europe and nobody's caught anything?'

  Alexis laughed. It was supposed to be an off-hand laugh, a who cares, we're having fun laugh. Its cruelty sent a shudder through her. She watched his eyes to see if he had heard it too.

  'They won't care,' she said. 'And they'll be prime customers when we take the show on tour.'

  'On tour?'

  'Yule will want to do it.' Yule had already spoken to her about it. 'If not after the first show, after the second when we've got a good product range. Let's go.'

  Their taxi was waiting outside. They stepped out of the front doors, should have frozen instantly. The air was cold, clean, blank. This was where air was made – breathe it and you would be clean again. Alexis drew a long slow breath through her nose, felt it cool her windpipe and swell her overworked lungs. She would carry it with her, this breath; use it when she needed to exercise control.

  -o-

  'Wow, that's so amazing. You know you should give a talk on this – here in New York. The wearing public would find it fascinating.'

  The young man standing next to Kester drew in closer. He was wearing a dinner jacket and a white mesh shirt that showed the raised purplish patches on his pectorals. His tight formal trousers made his legs look like piping bags, green patent loafers squirting out of the bottom. The rest of the group drew closer too, not to be left out in the cold: two more young men in similar garb and two young women, twins, in superhero-style catsuits, one red, one yellow, eyes running and wearing thick coloured eyeliner to emphasise the effect.

  'It is amazing,' Kester nodded. 'The human body is an amazing thing.'

  He took a long swig of his champagne and laughed. They all laughed with him. He was laughing because he had been talking gibberish for the last five minutes and they were all still nodding along with him as if they understood and agreed. He was laughing because they didn't care about the science. They cared about standing close to him.

  He wondered what the night would hold. Images from the parties they'd ended up at in Stockholm, Paris, Milan, wherever, crowded into Kester's mind: the Colgate sponsored smiles of their hosts – models, musicians, dignitaries; out-of-proportion cherubs on the arched ceiling of a bright restaurant; fifty, sixty tobacco pipes on the walls of a lamplit private bar; an underground club, ceiling supported by columns of flame and snow; beds – circular, water, four-poster; sunken baths full of slender arms and legs and bubbles; cars and the night passing by as they raced from party to party. All they had to do was arrive and wait for the invitations to flood Alexis' inbox. One party led to another.

  Here, in New York, the company had laid on an official welcome function in a restaurant on Madison Avenue. They'd invited a heady mix of business leaders, officials and local celebrities. The building was luxurious, real art deco, brass and mirrors, with domed ceilings and thick carpeted floor in reds and greens. The mezzanine at the back of the room where they stood gave Kester a demigod's view of the swilling guests. When they had left for Stockholm the previous week, the attention had been embarrassing to him, but he was starting to enjoy it.

  Alexis slithered into the space between the twins, hands sliding up over their shoulders. Kester winked and smiled at her. She had shown him how to enjoy it.

  'Have you met Miff and Prunella?' Kester asked her, trying to keep his smile under control.

  'No,' Alexis said smoothly, looking from one to the other, 'I don't believe I have.'

  'They're friends of Franz, remember, who we met in Berlin?' Kester could see Alexis scanning through her blurred memories of Berlin. They had gone to five parties in one night and met at least three people called Franz.

  'Franz with the…' Alexis said, waiting for a cue from Kester.

  'Yes! That Franz,' he said with a broad smile. He had no idea which Franz they were talking about either, but it seemed that news of their antics had gone before them.

  'Wow! What a coincidence,' Alexis replied.

  'This is Mason, Jonathan and Bryce.' Kester indicated the three young men in the group. 'I'm sure you all recognise Alexis Farrell.'

  'So, Alexis,' Mason began, shifting his weight in his green loafers. 'Can I call you Alexis?'

  'You can
call me whatever you like, darling,' she replied to a chorus of titters from the crowd.

  'I'll stick with Alexis,' Mason said. 'We've been trying to winkle out of Kester just what he's been carrying around in that mysterious black case of his.'

  Alexis smiled and shrugged.

  'The press are saying it's an exclusive. Is it something we can get our hands on?' Mason said.

  Again, she shrugged. Again, Kester laughed to himself. At each airport they had visited, Kester had alighted with his mysterious black case gripped tightly in his hand, cuffed to his wrist. The press loved it and he found it hilarious that they did. They questioned themselves in their articles. What's in his little black case? Why won't he check it in? Won't he trust anyone to carry it? And they'd all come to the conclusion that this was either a new top secret viral exclusive that was being transported to high profile wearers in advance of the show, or that it was a network-isolated laptop carrying details of all the viruses to be used at the event. They were so close to the end of his trip he was sorely tempted to admit to the subterfuge. Alexis opened her mouth to speak.

  'And don't change the subject!' Mason said.

  'I'm changing the subject.' Alexis raised her eyebrow and then looked at the twins again. 'I'm guessing you two are models? I recognise your faces – your face.'

  'No,' Kester said, seeing the twins pass a smile between them. 'Miff is the new Marketing Director at V New York – you would have seen her picture on the appointments bulletin – and Prunella works at Lapetus Finance. Don't ask me to explain what she does. She tried to tell me and I've had to talk virology for half an hour just to make myself feel intelligent again.'

  'My apologies,' Alexis said. 'A pleasure to meet you.'

  'And you,' Miff said. Her voice was painfully high and nasal, as if it were being squeezed through a Barbie doll. 'And don't worry, Kester,' her whole face dimpled, 'I don't have a clue what Pru does either. Don't tell the boss, but she got the brains.' Everyone laughed. 'I am looking forward to your presentation tomorrow.' She smiled at Mason and narrowed her eyes.

  Kester's tired brain jolted at the thought that he might have to do a presentation the next day, then he blinked long and calmed. Tomorrow's meeting would be fluff, the same as the others. Chen and Farrell were trusting no-one with details of the viruses and he didn't blame them; the models gossiping in the London bars while they were on their quarantine breaks was one thing, but a full-scale leak would not have been helpful. Kester's mind began to wander back to how they'd achieved their real brief – to be seen and talked about – whirlwinding together through the nightlife of the global wearing scene, teasing people with half-talk of plans for the show, charming and bedding the most desirable of their hosts and fellow party guests.

  Kester finished off his champagne and found another glass placed in his hand almost directly. The waiter was gone before he had time to say thanks. He took a swig of the fresh glass and smiled. The room was shining, the features of his new disciples bobbing in front of him. The last thing to leave his head that night when he closed his eyes would be their bright white Cheshire grins.

  Chapter 14

  Kester left his apartment through the outside door and stood in the small square hall, trying to empty his head of what the apartment looked like. He walked back in as a guest, acting as if he'd never seen the place before. It was easier having been away for three weeks. What were they going to see? What were they going to think? He imagined the chattering voices of his friends coming out of the lift into the narrow white hall and spilling in through the doorway.

  What would his friends see? An expanse of tiled floor, clean. A good start. A long wall covered with flock wallpaper, his outrageous carved four-poster. Should he have had a fold-down bed, he wondered, like Alexis' – one of the catalysts for the 'she never sleeps' rumour. No – this was a brilliant bed. He should defend it. He had called in the cleaner to make it up to hotel standards. No matter how carefully he did it himself it always looked like there had been an animal sleeping on it. Should he draw the curtains on it? No. He'd just end up pulling them back to show people.

  He turned and looked at the half of the room behind him. At the left was the door he'd just come through at the end of a boxed-off corridor; to the right was his living area, centrepiece to which was his green three-piece suite. They'd like that. It was pretty cool, wasn't it? But not too flashy-looking. Nothing on the window – it was lightly misted, allowing light in but obscuring the view of the building across the alley. Should they see that, or would it be best to have some music up? Music, he decided. This was his home now and he wanted it to feel homely and lively when they came in. It would be getting dark too, by that stage. He should have the lights low to take the clinical edge off the tiling.

  Of course, John would go straight for the PS controller anyway – he wouldn't see anything else. So it was just Betta and Sienna he had to worry about. He walked over to the couch that faced the window and looked up at the remaining walls. Both were floor-to-ceiling screens, so they could be changed to fit the occasion. Right now one looked like a normal wall, with a picture hanging on it. He took out his Book and changed the picture a few times, and then he changed the whole wall. Finally, he settled on plain white paint effect.

  His cocktail bar was laid out neatly, but not too neatly, and next door his vast glass desk was set up as a dining table. Catering had brought in everything he needed. Had he warned his friends that he wouldn't actually be cooking for them? He was sure John knew that he didn't have a kitchen.

  The catering order page was themed so that you could choose what impression you wanted to give your guests. Kester had chosen 'Casual Cool – you don't want them to think you've sweated over it, but you do want them to think you are pretty cool'. The only problem he'd had with catering was that they were a bit sniffy about removing the labels from the tableware, but when he suggested that the pre-fashion show dinner would use the same theme, they capitulated. As far as he knew, there was no pre-fashion show dinner planned, but who would have time to pull him up on it? They would have forgotten about it by then.

  The table dressing was minimal. The expanse of white cotton was given completely to the tall slender glasses and plain, long-handled cutlery. Kester picked up a fork and eyed it. He had used this set at Alexis'. It was beautiful on the table but made you look like you were knitting when you started to eat. Too late. He put the fork back down and turned his attention to the lighting. He would have it set low in this room, with the window to the front of the building clear so that they could see the view. Or should he start with it misted and set it to slow reveal?

  'Does it even matter?' he asked the empty room.

  Standing there, considering the answer, he noticed the spare place-setting he had asked for, sitting on the covered side unit. He fumbled out his Book and checked the time. He had spent every spare moment over the last few days worrying over this dinner party and more specifically over whether he should bring a partner. Glancing down at the graze on his wrist he remembered Boston with a pleasurable shudder. He knew that the only person he could ask without Alexis getting wind of it and taking offence was Alexis herself, but he was holding back. The transition back to being a manager hadn't been easy for him, though their three weeks away had evaporated quickly. His attention kept wandering back to the parties, to early morning hotel rooms with strangers, to strong coffee breakfasts at street tables with Alexis, laughing and shading their eyes from the headache sunlight. He had been looking out for some sign that the same had been happening to Alexis, but he hadn't seen anything. It was stupid, he decided. What happened to those balls he'd been growing? He flicked to her name on his Book.

  'Alexis,' he said as soon as he heard the click.

  'Kester, I'm in the middle of –'

  'Then you shouldn't have answered. I'll be quick. Come up for dinner tonight. I want you to meet my friends.'

  'I'll call you back.'

  For the next twenty minutes, Kester paced ar
ound the flat. She was going to say no – that's what it was – this was too personal. Fooling around for business purposes was one thing, but this wasn't business. He thought again of their trip and then of her laid on his dentist's chair, allowing him to paint her. He was afraid she'd say no. He was equally afraid she would say yes. None of them except for John knew about his relationship with Alexis and John's response to the revelation had been, 'Well, a hole's a hole.' Not entirely what Kester had been hoping for.

  His Book buzzed.

  'Yes,' he answered without even checking who it was.

  'Kester, darling, are you never in?'

  It was his mother.

  'Mum, I told you there's no point in routeing the call through the apartment.'

  'I got you this time, didn't I? Besides it's cheaper. And I'm always curious in case someone else answers. How is that Alex girl? She seemed very nice.'

  'It's Alexis, Mum, and she's not a girl, she's my boss.'

  'That's not how she introduced herself, dear. If you think she's just your boss, perhaps you should tell her that.'

  'What? I suppose she announced herself as "the future Mrs Dr Kester Lowe"?'

  'Oh dear, you are in a bad mood. No, she didn't, dear. She just said she was a friend.'

  'A friend?'

  'You sound surprised, darling – don't you have friends any more? You were friends with all the people you worked with at the Institute. Speaking of which –'

  'I still am friends with them Mum. In fact they're coming round here for dinner tonight.'

  'In your new apartment? That's what this grump is all about? Don't be such a silly sausage, Kester. They're your friends; they're happy you're successful. They'll enjoy all the toys, and seeing another way of living. And you're still you.'