Alex's Wonderful Wardrobe

Alex is standing in front of the mirror, trying on personalities. The sun is setting, incandescent in magenta and crimson, vying with the brash glow of the street lights.

Alex writes carefully and precisely in the little black notebook: “7pm: Daphne”.

A french chignon, dead mother’s pearls...Alex slips into Daphne with ease, the silk cool and caressing, the makeup understated, the fragrance subtle yet insidious.

The emerald ink is wet on the ivory page “8pm…” Alex muses, playing with the heavy fountain pen (engraved, Montblanc, skilfully abstracted from the middle-aged man snoozing behind his Times). 8pm will be a surprise.

7pm. The Gallery fountains dance in time to the jazz band, diamonds and velvets twirl and spin under the blind gaze of the neo-Classical sculptures.

“Daffy Darling!”

Alex grimaces internally. Daffy?! Really?, was she a duck? Violet could be so dense sometimes.

Alex’s laugh tinkles like champagne, gracefully air kissing with a Chanel rouge velvet pout.

“Vi! How fabulous to see you! And who is your delightful accessory?”

Violet is clutching onto his arm, terrified of losing him to the next pair of glossily manicured claws.

8pm: Violet’s temporary trophy and current husband.

Lucky Lucian is golden to the core, scattering suavity, bonhomie and glittering largesse. He is rumoured to have more zeroes in his bank account than his wife Violet has lovers. There are those who call him “Lucky Lucifer” (mainly those who had unwillingly contributed to those endless zeroes) and Alex was inclined to agree: that wealth, that charm...truly devilish.

“Oh Daffy, this is Lou, Lou meet my dearest friend, Daphne Deguisée.”

“Delighted...”

Lucian is dazzled by Daphne (what a lucky choice! thinks Alex). He smells of amber and mahogany and darkness: Alex inhales his scent, then leans over, burgundy lips pressed to his stubbled cheek, one polished hand pressed gently against his tailored back. With a slight tug, the golden (so very golden) strands of his soul unravel. Lucian gasps, a tiny, orgasmic sound and then he is slipped carefully into the beaded velvet clutch dangling from Daphne’s slender arm.

7.45pm: time for Daphne to retire. “Daphne” thinks Alex, removing the pearls, “is getting rather worn”. Alex carefully presses Daphne in tissue paper and hangs her in the airy wardrobe.

Alex flourishes the gilded Montblanc pen and carefully adds to the little black notebook:

“8pm: Lucky Lucian"

Alex shrugs on Lucian, once again analysing and observing the mirror’s reflection. Unlike the silk and diamonds of Daphne, Lucian is rougher: tweeds and whisky with undertones of musk. Unable to resist, Alex swirls the tiniest drop of Lucian’s soul in a coupé glass, admiring the tawny hue and the plum rich flavour.

Alex swaggers through the garish gilt and marble lobby of the Casino, enjoying the fawning gazes as much as the bitter hisses of “Lucifer”. Dantes is huddled in a corner, attempting to camouflage himself into a giant pot plant. He is so much the comedy villain that Alex is hard pressed not to laugh - a cigar AND a pin-striped suit? Did he think he was living in “the Godfather”?

“Evening, Dantes”. The fear on Dantes’s face just from the unexpected greeting is priceless. Honestly, Lucian is so much more fun than Daphne. Daphne can be icy and condescending, but the fear Lucian inspires...delicious.

“Lou! You’re here...In the flesh….I thought you was in the Maldives with the Mrs,”

“Missed you too much Dantes, couldn’t stay away”.

Dantes shifts uncomfortably, the tang of his nervousness acrid on Alex’s tongue.

“I’ll get it to you soon Lou, soon as I possibly can”.

Wannabe mafioso Dantes and luminous Lucian were not a combination Alex would have put together, but it wasn’t altogether surprising that Lucian’s famed goldeness was rather grimy at bottom. Alex briefly considers Dantes- a clichéd crook could be rather entertaining to try on- but the whiff of stale cigarettes and cheap wine is stomach-turning. All the hospitality staff in the city know that Dantes is unable to distinguish between Lambrini and Moët, and take full advantage. Alex knows without checking that the contents of the Dom Perignon bottle on the table costs under a fiver at Aldi.

“Soon? How about right now Dantes?” Alex leans over and turns on the full force of Lucian’s menacing, golden charm: “Come on Dantes, don’t let me down”.

Dantes surrenders visibly, his innate cowardice and instinct to survive overcoming any thoughts of bravado. “As it’s you Lou...it’s only a fraction, mind. I’ll get you the rest soon, really soon. I promise Lucian.... We’ll go now, this second. Better take your Lamb, mine’s too conspic”. Dantes’s knock-off Lamborghini is notorious: virulent green with black racing stripes, it was also noisy enough to disturb graveyards three towns over. Everyone except Dantes knew it was a poorly disguised Mazda.

The car purrs along the rain drenched streets. Alex is relishing Dantes’s company: his pungent terror of Lucian, his pathetic attempts at camaraderie, and, most of all , the promise of whatever he has to give to Lucian (even if it is just a fraction of what Lucian expects).

Hoping for a derelict warehouse, or even an underground cellar accessed through a drain pipe, Alex is disappointed when Dantes indicates an innocuous semi-detached house. “Mum’s house” Dantes explains succinctly. “She’s in Fuerteventura”.

Alex wonders what on earth Dantes is going to produce. A cup of tea and chocolate digestives? Alex unfolds Lucian’s long frame from the cramped car and follows Dantes through the house and up the threadbare stairs. The faded Spurs posters and pile of Playboy magazines suggests this is Dantes’s childhood bedroom (or indeed Dantes’s current bedroom, who knew where Dantes lurked these days?).

“Look Dantes, I’m all for a bit of nostalgia but your teenage perversities have little appeal for me” Lucian’s drawl is...luscious- Alex can’t think of a more suitable word. Lucian never shows irritation - instead he drips golden honey laced with arsenic.

“No, no, I hid it here Lou, I would never waste your time, never”. Alex idly wonders what it would be like to have this hold over people all the time, to be this powerful, to be as lucky as Lucian all day, every day. “Too boring” Alex decides, as Dantes flings open his sagging Ikea cupboard. Lucian’s finely cut Roman nose wrinkles in distaste, assaulted by the decades-old stench of Lynx deodorant and mildewed gym-wear.

Instead of clothes the closet is filled with money. Shelves and shelves of Her Majesty’s legal tender...well, hopefully legal. Alex can’t imagine Dantes having the nerve to deceive Lucian with piles of counterfeit.

“Cash, Dantes? What is this, 1985?”

Dantes perpetual expression of furtive anxiety is starting to wear on Alex’s limited patience.

“I can convert it if you like Lou, anything you want”.

Alexb weighs up the options. On the one hand, laundering stacks of bank-notes isn’t exactly a relaxing pastime, but on the other, the chances of Dantes ending up in the nearest canal wearing concrete booties before he converts the cash is highly likely.

“How much?”

“I’m sorry Lou, it’s only 20 thou. I’ll get you the rest. Soon, really soon. I promise”.

Twenty thousand! Alex’s first foray as Lucky Lucian has resulted in twenty thousand….a sum, according to Dantes, that is mere pennies to Lucian. Lucian really is a lucky charm.

“It’ll do, I guess,” Alex responds, channelling Lucian’s ability to sound bored but suave simultaneously.

Dantes helps Alex load Lucky Lucian’s Lamborghini (Alex can’t resist the alliteration) with the silky crisp notes.

“What next?” wonders Alex, driving through the sparkling city, unexpectedly wenty thousand richer and fortunately now devoid of Dantes’s company; that much cash requires its own seat.

The paparazzi flashes outside the Plaza cause Alex to see stars- who on earth deserves such a welcome?

10pm: La bella princesa

Marguerite, epitome of elegance, of style, of decadence. Princess of 𑁋 no one knew where, it was impolite to ask. If anyone committed the unforgivable faux-pas of asking, the wrinkled, still-beautiful face would crumple, the doll-blue eyes brimming with tears. “The past, it is too, too painful…” The questioner would retreat abashed, horrified that they had caused La bella princesa the pain of remembering. There were vague murmurs of Infantas, of Anastasia, even of far-flung Emperors: Marguerite cloaked herself and her majestic antecedents in glamourous mystery.

Alex strides through the chittering crowd, ignoring the exclamations of the reporters : “Lucky Lucian and the Princess! Together! Why, it was too good to be true!”

“Lou, mon petit chou, mio caro,” Marguerite offers a petal soft cheek to be kissed. Her ice-white hair is laden with glittering gems and pearls. “Mellerio” recognises Alex, the delicate curves of the shell tiara betraying their provenance. “Mellerio!” in a diamond- flash Alex envisions the twenty thousand Dantes- sullied notes transformed into jewels fit for a princess.

Alex stoops and presses Lucian’s lips to the royal cheek, one strong masculine hand pressed against the frail waist of the dainty bella princesa. Alex tugs gently and Marguerite breathes a soft sigh, the snow-white thread of her soul wound tightly around Lucian’s signet ring.

In front of the mirror once more, Alex is clad in royalty. Tomorrow, Marguerite will use Dante’s thousands to purchase Mellerio’s prettiest baubles. For the moment, Alex is savouring the regality of la bella princesa, absorbing Marguerite’s vices and vanities and her illustrious past. Marguerite tastes of lavender and cream, and very faintly of...gooseberries? Marguerite, Princess of 𑁋 Alex’s eyes widen, laughter erupts and Alex is doubled over, hilarious tears streaming down Marguerite’s rose tinted cheeks as the Princess’s native kingdom is finally revealed. Marguerite, née Maggie Watson, only daughter of John and Barbara Watson of 17B Hall Lane, Birmingham. La bella princesa of the greengrocer’s. Still chuckling, Alex folds Marguerite away carefully, taking care not to damage the delicate and aging Princess.

Midnight: Alex.

The mirror’s reflection is empty, the wardrobe closed. Alex drifts off to sleep, dreaming of Lucian’s gold, Dantes’s pusillanimity and la bella Princesa Maggie Watson.