by Vina Jackson
‘Are we going to another wedding?’ Summer Zahova, the flame-haired violinist asked Dominik when she spotted the notice pinned to the fridge alongside the menu to their local Chinese takeaway that made the best roast duck she had ever tasted.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘That club by Smithfield, reopening, I think. Not a wedding.’
‘Thank fuck for that,’ she said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I don’t think I could bear to sit through another one. Shall we go, then? It’s been a while.’
‘So it has,’ he said, resting his hands on her hips and pulling her back against him. ‘I’m surprised She hasn’t asked you to come and play for the event.’
‘Now that you mention it,’ she replied, ‘my agent has been calling. Something about an opening night that I’m not allowed to be seen dead at under any circumstances, let alone performing.’
Dominik laughed. ‘And you’ve been practising ever since, I bet?’
Across the wide open space of Hampstead Heath, Viggo Franck was wordlessly protesting about his latest task under the watchful eye of Lauralynn. He’d just been finishing his weekly house-cleaning session when the doorbell rang. It was the postman waiting on the door’s threshold with some letters and a parcel that wouldn’t fit through the slot.
‘I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England,’ the postman said when Viggo offered through the intercom to give him the alarm code so that he could open the door and deposit the mail on the floor just inside. ‘It’s not good enough, mate, I need your signature. More than my job’s worth if I don’t play by the book.’ He was implacable.
‘Go on, then,’ Lauralynn said. ‘Off you go.’ An expression of merriment lit up her face and her eyes twinkled.
Viggo paused and looked down at himself. He was wearing a cheap and tacky PVC maid’s costume. Not even a black and white one. Worse than that. This one was a pink and white short-skirted monstrosity with a baggy frill that didn’t even swing as it ought to around his hips, but hung low on his bum, giving him a slovenly, lopsided appearance that he hated. In his right hand he gripped a matching feather duster with a nasty plastic handle.
‘And don’t act like the paparazzi are going to snap you. No one gives a damn. They already know you’re a pervert.’
Yes, he wanted to say, but there are perverts and then there are perverts, and no one really knew what kind he was. That was half the fun of it.
But where Lauralynn was concerned, he was powerless to stop himself from following her orders so he blithely opened the house’s front door with all the dignity that he could muster while tottering on a pair of hot-pink high-heeled shoes and returned a few moments later with a pile of mail and the box that, unbeknownst to him, contained a new toy that Lauralynn had purchased as soon as she had got wind that She had begun to distribute the invitations.
‘Here’s your parcel,’ Viggo said to her without a hint of irritation. ‘I think, from now on, we’ll find the postman more agreeable. Either that or we’ll never see him again.’
Luba’s invitation had even further to travel, all the way to Darwin. She had just locked her bicycle to the rail outside the jewellery shop when she noticed the corner of the white envelope poking out from the crack under the door. Chey was already inside, but so wrapped up in studying the precious shipment of amber that he had finally managed to get his hands on that he hadn’t noticed the post.
He rose to greet her when she entered and brushed away the stray locks of blonde hair that the helmet had displaced. Luba still wore her hair short. Each time he looked at her, he was overwhelmed by the memory of cutting her long blonde locks to disguise her feminine features after they had managed to escape from Dublin and the Russian mobsters who had tried to kill him. They had now made a new life for themselves in Australia.
Luba placed the assortment of takeaway fliers and bills down on the desk and turned the thick white paper over in her hands. ‘There’s no stamp,’ she said, ‘or address.’ She tore it open swiftly, fearful that Chey’s enemies had finally tracked them down, although she knew that Viggo Franck, who had helped them elude capture on that fateful night, along with Lauralynn, Summer and Dominik, had created a long stream of diversions to keep their pursuers from ever discovering their real location.
She relaxed when she saw the red lettering and read the short note that had been included, along with the date and address. ‘Something to do with the Network people. They want me to dance again, and say that everything will be taken care of.’
‘Is it safe?’ Chey asked.
‘I know them well. They’re practically magicians. And it would mean that we could visit Europe and I could dance one last time.’
He bent forward and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead.
Neil had just worked up the courage to bring the ‘His’ branded flogger down onto Lily’s bare back when the flat’s buzzer rang.
‘Dammit,’ he said, ‘stay there.’
‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere,’ Lily replied drily.
Neil had received a substantial bonus for winning a big client and he’d used the proceeds to kit his entire apartment out like something from a Kink.com film set. Lily was standing spread-eagled in the living room against a St Andrew’s cross, totally naked, with her hands and wrists cuffed in black leather restraints, waiting for Neil to return and continue his beating.
‘Anyone important?’ she asked when she heard his footsteps padding back to the room.
‘Nothing as important as what I’m about to do to you,’ he replied, tossing the white card on the counter top unopened.
The night was perfect, when it finally arrived. The air was still and icy. A light frost had settled over footpaths and windowpanes and Lily’s breath hung in the air like a cloud when she exited the taxi.
Neil held the door open for her and helped her with the train on her oyster-coloured gown. He was wearing a sleek black tuxedo, crisp white shirt and bow tie, but only for the journey there and back. In his arms he held a large carry-all that contained, amongst other things, a pair of tiny rubber shorts with ‘Property of Lady Lily’ emblazoned on the back in silver letters.
Lily wrapped her white faux-fur coat around her tightly. The dress beneath, the same one that she had worn at the ball, was beautiful but did little to protect her from the elements. Her Doc Marten boots crunched on the ground as she stepped up to the club’s door. She would change into the matching silk slippers when she got inside. Though if Neil was naughty, he might yet feel the soles of the boots trampling his back.
‘What’s under there, do you think?’ she asked Neil, pointing up at a black velvet curtain that had been erected outside to cover up the club’s new name.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he replied, ‘but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’
Inside, a line of greeters stood side by side, ready to take their coats and show them around.
‘Would you prefer an Alice or a rabbit?’ asked the head greeter, a short, voluptuous, dark-haired woman with a sumptuous and totally sheer frilled frock on that left nothing to the imagination. Her skin was painted all over with stars and moons in a blend of silver, blue and black like the night sky.
Lily looked down the line. ‘A rabbit, please,’ she replied.
The Alices, she noticed, were the swan-like ballet dancers from the ball. They were all wearing bright-blue dresses with lace pinafores over the top and matching white gloves and bobby socks. The rabbits all appeared to be women, but instead of the typical Playboy bunny style costume they were dressed in white latex tuxedos and black top hats with a red trim. Each of them wore red handkerchiefs folded into breast pockets, and large silver pocket watches. Bright-red lipsticked mouths sported tiny curled fake moustaches.
A rabbit bounced out from the queue and beckoned Lily and Neil to follow.
‘This way,’ she cried. ‘I’ll show you around.’
They raced to catch up with her as she disappeared down corridors that Lily had never seen before, even though
she’d been into the building dozens of times. They hadn’t even had time to remove their coats yet or to change. ‘The coat room is on the way,’ the rabbit yelled as if she’d read Lily’s mind.
The first room was painted in a lustrous glowing white, like the landscape of the moon. Lily held out her hand. Something appeared to be falling from the ceiling. Snowflakes, or some kind of crystal rain. But it was neither, just a stage trick that made it appear as though everything was being bathed in light.
A long bar ran all the way around the room. The surface glittered with tiny crystals that were set into the countertop. The bevy of bartenders bustling behind were all wearing Mad Hatter costumes and serving cocktails in a mixture of tall thin glasses and old china teacups.
Lily grabbed a tall drink from a passing tray and pressed it to her lips. Pomegranate, she decided, as she swirled the mixture around in her mouth. And vodka.
‘Your mouth is covered in glitter,’ Neil pointed out as she brought the glass away from her lips. ‘It’s all around the rim.’
‘It’ll be all over everything and everyone by the end of the night!’
‘I imagine that’s the point,’ he replied.
The next room was in total contrast to the first. The walls were pitch black and lit with burning candelabras. A heady musk incense perfumed the room.
‘For your inner goth,’ Neil marvelled, staring around at the heavy silver restraint systems that lined the walls.
At the front of the room, on a ceremonial dais, sat a middle-aged couple dressed in matching Victorian-style costumes, like a couple of vampires waiting for willing victims to wander in. They were each holding a purple saucer and drinking from matching teacups. The glitter had migrated onto their teeth so that when they smiled at the two young people who had just entered the room, their mouths glittered.
‘She looks familiar,’ said the woman to the man she sat alongside. ‘Have we seen her somewhere before?’
‘Hmm,’ he reflected, casting back. ‘Probably.’
‘It’s that teardrop tattoo, Ed. Just looks so familiar.’
But before Clarissa could isolate the memory, the young couple were gone again, dragged along by the hostess who was showing them around. Most likely they would bump into them again later, possibly in a much more intimate manner.
‘Wow,’ Neil said. ‘I wonder if we’ll be like that in twenty years?’
She really was going to have to gag him, thought Lily, who had barely said a word since they got inside. She just wanted to soak it all in. The wonder of it all. It was as if she’d woken up and found herself landed in the middle of the happiest of daydreams and discovered that she didn’t need to leave.
A wall of humidity hit them when they entered the next corridor. They were in a glass house full of tropical plants and flowers. Birds tweeted and a soft breeze brushed against their shoulders.
Right in the centre of the room stood a beautiful blonde woman. She was completely naked with her arms held over her head and painted like the petals of a Lily. Neil’s eyes immediately dropped downwards. He blushed internally. He tried not to be too obvious about his voyeuristic tendencies, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.
‘Is that a gun?’ he whispered to Lily. The tiny picture was etched just next to her pussy. Neil had long since discovered that he was by no means the only one with a tattoo in a private place. The thought pleased him. He belonged somewhere at last.
‘Yes.’ Lily smiled. ‘We must stay here and watch her dance. She’s wonderful. The other rooms can wait.’
Luba unfurled her arms and began to sway. After a few soundless beats, the clear notes of a violin echoed through the room.
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons again. Lily looked up, trying to locate the origin of the music. It didn’t sound as though it were coming from speakers.
Summer Zahova was suspended in a glass platform near the ceiling. Lily could just make out a flash of her red hair, and the familiar curves of her body. And she would recognise that music anywhere. The platform was right in the middle of the room, and Summer wasn’t wearing a costume. She was completely naked so that anyone who looked up would have a perfect vision of the musician’s long, slim legs and if she shifted her stance so her feet were slightly apart, the viewer might be gifted with a brief flash that would confirm their suspicions that she was indeed a natural red head.
In the background, Richard the circus master was posturing in full regalia like the uncontested master of his domain.
Lily then noted the two men who sat at the back of the room, nearly hidden by the undergrowth. One of them was dark-haired and the other blonde, and they were dressed in tight latex trousers and mesh tops. They made an undeniably handsome pair, but both looked slightly sheepish. Ruled by their women, exactly as they should be, Lily thought smugly. She looked again, and recognised that one of them was the man that she had hired the violin to in the Denmark street store, those few years ago.
Dominik.
‘Heya, beautiful,’ called a brash voice from behind them, carelessly interrupting the show.
It was Lauralynn, poured into her favourite catsuit and high-heeled boots, with Viggo trailing after her on his hands and knees, totally nude. At least she had done him the kindness of allowing him to wear pads on his hands and knees to protect his bony joints from the flooring. He moved closer into view and Lily nearly burst out laughing when she noticed the butt plug that he wore in his arse. It was a long, black, curling pig’s tail.
‘Don’t you dare ever put one of those in me,’ Neil hissed at her. ‘It’s a hard limit.’
Lily patted him on the knee reassuringly.
‘Hey!’ cried another voice from a fern behind them.
Liana and Leroy stepped out of the bushes.
‘We got started early,’ she said, wiping her mouth without a hint of embarrassment. Leroy’s leather trousers hung loose at his thighs and as he tucked himself in, Lily noticed a flash of glitter decorating his bare cock.
‘The whole gang is here for the show,’ Lily said.
‘I know,’ Liana replied, ‘isn’t it great?’
At the stroke of midnight, all the guests were ushered out onto the pavement outside, champagne overflowing from their tall crystal glasses, some drunk, some merely merry, some dressed and others in manifold states of ceremonial undress, spilling into the narrow street, an effervescent cocktail of leather, silk, latex, the flimsiest of cottons and every material under the sun.
‘This is it,’ She cried out. She was wearing a skin-tight outfit of impossibly sheer latex that revealed more than it covered, and vertiginous diamond-encrusted heels. Pulling firmly on a pink length of bondage rope, she unveiled the club’s new sign. For half a second it remained dark and everyone held their breath. Then the neon began flickering and exploded into letters of light.
EIGHTY DAYS
‘The club is now baptised,’ She proclaimed loudly to the cheering crowd.
As the guests began to walk back in single file into the club to continue the festivities, Lily was jostled and for a moment found herself side by side with an exultant She. The supreme dominatrix flashed her a toothy smile.
‘Why Eighty Days?’ Lily ventured to ask as they stood close together. ‘What does it mean?’
She laughed out loud.
‘Nothing, Lily. It’s just something we came up with out of the blue. It really means nothing, but now we can all live happily ever after.’
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Acknowledgements
Writing and publishing the Eighty Days series has been an exhilarating adventure from the moment the two authors who make up Vina Jackson met by total coincidence on a train heading west.
Many people must be thanked for their contribution, assistance, support and trust along the road. These of course include our redoubtable agent Sa
rah Such at the Sarah Such Literary Agency; our publishers at Orion, Jon Wood and Jemima Forrester; our foreign rights representative Rosie Buckman; and the various overseas publishers who took us on. They all paved our way onto the bestseller lists and our success would not have happened without any of them.
A large number of personal friends, partners, ex-partners, close and remote family have also been instrumental in the inspiration behind Eighty Days but cannot be named as the dominant publishing powers feel that, at this stage, both our identities should remain cloaked in mystery. But let it be known that their importance was paramount. You all know who you are!
One half of Vina Jackson also owes a major debt to their kind employer who made the journey easier, along with Gideon K of Black Hay for creative and musical encouragement; Kaurna Cronin, a busker who doesn’t even know Vina walked by on one sunny Berlin morning while researching Red and stopped to listen to his amazing rendition of Springsteen’s ‘I’m on Fire’; Scarlett French for Florence and riding boots; Garth Knight for his inspirational ‘Enchanted Forest’ images; Matt Christie for photography; Sacred Pleasures for support and technical advice; Ella Vakkasova for verifying geography in Kreuzberg and recommending Café Matilda; and Verde & Co in Spital-fields for providing a cosy stool and the best flat whites in London.
The other half of Vina Jackson wishes to thank Kristina Lloyd for verifying our knowledge of the geography of Brighton, and Richard Kadrey, author of the splendid Sandman Slim series and also a great fetish photographer in his own right, for inadvertently providing us with the House of Bamboo Dolls, which behind his back we moved from Los Angeles to San Francisco and turned into a somewhat different place altogether in the process.
The Eighty Days series currently comprises five novels and one short story, and it’s at this stage that we leave Summer, Dominik, Lauralynn, Luba, Chey, Lily, Liana, Leroy, She, Grayson, Viggo, Dagur, Neil and many others who have become close to our hearts. But Eighty Days will return soon with a whole new raft of characters, bigger and better than ever.
