Glitterati E-Book

Oliver K. Langmead

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 374

Beschreibung

A Clockwork Orange and RuPaul's Drag Race meet Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in this fabulous dystopian fable about fashion, family and feckless billionaires.Simone is one of the Glitterati, the elite living lives of luxury and leisure. Slave to the ever-changing tides – and brutal judgements - of fashion, he is immaculate. To be anything else is to be unfashionable, and no one wants to be unfashionable, or even worse, ugly…When Simone accidentally starts a new fashion with a nosebleed at a party, another Glitterati takes the credit. Soon their rivalry threatens to raze their opulent utopia to the ground, as no one knows how to be vicious like the beautiful ones.Enter a world of the most fantastic costumes, grand palaces in the sky, the grandest parties known to mankind and the unbreakable rules of how to eat ice cream. A fabulous dystopian fable about fashion, family and the feckless billionaire class.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also by Oliver K. Langmead and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Glitterati

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

GLITTERATI

Also by Oliver K. Langmead and available from Titan Books

Birds of Paradise

GLITTERATI

OLIVER K. LANGMEAD

TITAN BOOKS

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GlitteratiPrint edition ISBN: 9781789097962E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097979

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: May 202210 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Oliver K. Langmead 2022. All Rights Reserved.

Oliver K. Langmead asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Ross

Wednesday. Or was it Tuesday?

“Georgie, darling?”

“What is it, dear Simone?”

“Is it Wednesday, or Tuesday?”

“It’s Tuesday today.”

“Did we not have a Tuesday yesterday?”

Georgie paused, to consider. Then, she said, “No, dearest. We had a Monday yesterday. I recall it being Monday quite clearly, in fact, because Gabriel was wearing a beaded Savinchay dress, and as you well know, it would be outrageous to wear beads on any other day of the week.”

That settled it, then.

Simone unpeeled his face from the pink leather chaise-longue. Last night had been a rainbow of cocktails, resulting in the headache now threatening to impinge on his usually immaculate poise. He went across to the gold-plated Manchodroi dresser, which he only ever used on Tuesdays, and was astonished to find that his usual dose of painkillers was gone.

“Georgie!” he cried.

“What is it, Simone?”

“My medicine is missing!”

“Have you checked the Manchodroi dresser?”

“I have opened the very drawer in which my Tuesday dose is stored, and that drawer is quite empty. Might you have accidentally taken them?”

“Certainly not.”

“And you’re absolutely sure today is Tuesday?”

“I’m positive, dearest Simone. I was just reminiscing about Galvin’s outfit at the gala last night – he wore that beaded Crostay gown of his, and it quite took my breath away. I am absolutely, one hundred per cent certain today is Tuesday. Could it be you’ve misplaced your medication?”

“Well,” said Simone, uncertainly. “It could be. I remember very little of last night.”

“Use the supply we set aside in the upper left cupboard of the wardrobe in the guest bedroom. And do get ready. You have work in two hours, and it would be simply awful were you to arrive too late.”

This was true. It being a Tuesday, it would be the talk of the office were Simone to arrive at work anything more than twenty minutes late. Simone quickly rushed through to the guest bedroom and rooted around in the wardrobe, locating the spare painkillers. He went into the guest bathroom and spread the white powder across the shining surface beside the mirrored sink, which was inlaid with diamonds, and then proceeded to snort it all up in one go. The drugs fizzed in his brain, and his headache began to recede.

“Superb,” he said to his ruffled reflection. “Most delightful.”

Tuesday, then, which meant wearing white to work. Simone returned to his own bedroom and searched through his walk-in wardrobes for his white suits: the first, a close-fitting number from Messr Messr; the second, a looser but tastefully trimmed alternative from Karrat; and lastly, his brand-new white suit, made with a freshly invented meta-material infused with light-emitting micro-LEDs from Karpa Fishh, which was at the very forefront of fashion technology. Still not feeling quite himself, Simone settled on the understated Messr Messr suit, and laid it out while he got to work on his face.

Tuesday was a pale day, so he decided to use his collection of Flaystay cosmetics, which were designed to really bring out one’s bone structure. He began with a three-point washing formula followed by some moisturiser, and cleared it away with some body-temperature water. Then, he moved on to his foundation, applied with his silky-soft Karrat brush set, and finished up with a layer of ivory-white powder. The powdering done, he blended some of his grey blushers together and began to highlight the shape of his skull, applying liberal shadows to the space beneath his cheekbones. Then, once his face was perfectly skull-like, he began to draw out his eyes with his eyeliners and eye shadows, until they were quite the centrepiece of his face. Running his fingers along his collection of Dramaskil false eyelashes, he selected a white pair speckled with a dusting of black powder, and proceeded to affix them to his eyelids. These, he finished off with a little mascara, just to really bring them out. Finally, he settled on a light grey lipstick, applying it carefully to avoid staining his vividly white teeth.

Pouting to make certain all was in place, Simone sealed his face with some Grantis Granto makeup fixer – spraying it liberally to make certain nothing would slide off during his busy day ahead.

Face affixed, Simone pulled on his Messr Messr suit and tightened his tie.

Two forty-five already? Simone hastened through his home and air-kissed his wife. She was still wearing her pyjamas and sat at her own dresser, gently rubbing moisturiser into her skin; Tuesday was her day off, and she would be spending the majority of it maintaining her complexion. Admiring himself in the hallway mirror, which was framed with bulbs bright enough to reveal every single possible flaw in the beholder, Simone felt satisfied. He left for work.

* * *

Unfortunately, Simone’s route to work took him above the streets of the city suburbs, where the poor unfashionables lived.

The windows of the pristine vibro-rail carriage revealed the depths below, where the houses were made for practicality instead of design. They looked, to Simone, like terrible parodies of the packaging some of his least fabulous items of clothing came in.

The uglies. The unwashed, unmanicured masses. The unfashionables.

It pained him to see them down there, milling around without the first idea of how dreadful they appeared. Their untrained aesthetic senses were so underdeveloped they could barely comprehend their own hideousness. To think that they did actual labour! To think they used things like shovels and wrenches and drills! Simone shuddered, but found himself unable to look away. The horror of it drew him in completely.

It was unfathomable that people existed like that.

The vibro-rail carriage slipped through a tunnel, and suddenly he was there, at the heart of the horror, where beyond the unornamented fences the unfashionables lumbered around. If only Simone’s tear ducts hadn’t been removed – why, he would have wept for them. Feeling his gut squirm around inside him, he watched them go by, bumping into each other, smiling their unpainted smiles, staring open-mouthed and lustily at the vibro-rail train as it swept past: at its contents – the beautiful glitterati.

To think that they were the same species. It boggled the mind.

Simone secretly hoped the unfashionables would all catch a disease and die. Of course, it wasn’t fashionable to think such thoughts. The fashion was that the uglies were to be pitied, and charity in the form of discarded past-season wardrobes was a sign of good character. But Simone only said he sent his old wardrobes down to the unfashionables. In reality, he burned his clothes when he was done with them. The mere thought of his discarded clothes touching the skin of any of those aesthetically impaired creatures made him feel ill.

So caught up in horror was he that Simone barely noticed the vibro-rail gliding to a halt. As he stood, he realised he had been alone in his carriage, and was the only one leaving the train.

The vast and crystalline Tremptor Tower rose ahead, and Simone felt his heart lift. It was like working in heaven – those fluted glass cylinders, which made the whole building look like an enormous celestial organ, always made him smile. He was careful with his smile, of course. It simply wouldn’t do to affect his face before making his entrance.

He checked his watch. Precisely twenty minutes late. Perfect.

There was a queue at the front entrance, and the instant Simone set his eyes upon it he felt his heart stop. Every single man and woman in the queue was wearing purple.

What could it mean? Had he missed an issue of one of the one hundred and sixteen different fashion magazines he was subscribed to? Holding a hand delicately to his chest, Simone felt as if he should flee. But it was too late. He was already caught up in the queue. And those behind him…

Simone risked a glance backwards. Open mouths and wide eyes. Horror.

Maybe it was a joke. Maybe everyone in Tremptor Tower was in on it. Maybe he would make his entrance and everyone would applaud and laugh, and he would laugh with them, and they would all drink champagne and reminisce for years to come about how delightful the jest had been.

The queue moved forwards. Then, it was Simone’s turn.

Throwing his shoulders back, Simone sashayed inside.

Absolute silence. The hands poised mid-clap to receive him were completely still. The long red runway felt endless, but still he sashayed on – eyes on the horizon, lips pursed. Not a single camera flashed. But there, at last, his salvation: the steps leading off the entrance runway and over to the lifts. He would have run the last few metres, but not a single drop of sweat had been shed in Tremptor Tower since its construction, and he certainly wouldn’t be the first to desecrate the hallowed ground.

Inside the lift, Simone pressed the button for the fifty-sixth floor with one shaking finger. Everyone around him was wearing purple. They kept glancing at him, but he kept his eyes down, studying the elevator’s intricately designed carpet.

What could have happened? What had gone wrong? Unless… Simone’s eyes grew wide.

What if it wasn’t Tuesday after all? What if it was actually Wednesday?

The implications were unbearable. Was he to spend the entire day unfashionable? Wearing all white when it was a complete faux pas to be in white on a Wednesday? But what could he do? Possibly, he could phone his wife and get her to bring a spare outfit. But then – what about his face? The Grantis Granto makeup fixer would be solid for at least the next eight hours.

Eventually, the elevator arrived at the fifty-sixth floor.

Simone power-walked the final few steps into his office and shut the door behind himself. Using the glass misters, he crystallised the walls so that they were opaque, and sat down behind his three-tier desk. He would simply have to hide in his office all day. If anybody came knocking, he would claim to be in a meeting. It was the done thing, after all. An actual meeting had not occurred in Tremptor Tower since its creation, but to use being in a meeting as an excuse to not meet people was polite.

He would have to get creative in order to bide his time. Nobody in Tremptor Tower actually did any work, after all. It would have been a dreadful waste of the mind. Work was for the unfashionables, who could afford the brainpower.

Simone took a deep breath. It would be all right. He would simply read magazines all day. Selecting the latest Gentlemen’s Art from his desk, he flicked between the pages and eventually began to relax. It would be fine. Only a few people had seen him, after all. He would laugh it off tomorrow. They would all laugh it off, and drink champagne, and it would be a funny anecdote.

It was good to catch up on the newest fashions, anyway. They tended to move quite quickly, and magazines were the most efficient means of keeping track.

There came a knock at the door. “Simone?” It was Darlington.

“I’m in a meeting!” he cried, hiding behind his magazine.

“But, Simone, you simply must come out. It’s Trevor Tremptor! He’s come to see us.”

How dreadful! Simone had still been operating under the assumption that it was Tuesday, when it was in fact Wednesday, and on Wednesdays Trevor Tremptor, fashion icon and head of the Tremptor Company, liked to mingle with those on the fifty-sixth floor of his tower. Simone was mortified. This could mean embarrassment before the whole company. Worse – this could mean demotion.

Trembling, Simone stepped out into the corridor and stood before his door.

Everyone else was lined up, all dressed in purple. As soon as they set eyes on him, there were gasps. White? On a Wednesday? It was outrageous.

There was Trevor Tremptor now, air-kissing each of his employees in turn, and offering little compliments. Everyone blushed the correct amount, and blinked in deference. Trevor himself was so incredible to look upon that it hurt Simone’s eyes. Had ever a more fashionable being existed? Simone wanted to disappear into the carpet.

At last, Trevor Tremptor arrived before Simone. There was a long silence. Everyone was holding their breath.

“Simone…” said Trevor carefully, but Simone couldn’t meet his gaze. He kept his head down, so ashamed of what he was wearing. “Simone…” said Trevor again, and Simone closed his eyes, waiting for the guillotine to drop. “That… is… fabulous.”

* * *

Simone was invited to luncheon up on the ninety-ninth floor of Tremptor Tower, where the company’s most highly regarded fashionistas worked.

The offices he passed were bursting with poised statues and intricate pieces of useless electronic equipment, and even the stacks of blank paper were of top quality – a creamy white watermarked with this month’s Tremptor logo. Simone kept his chin high, doing his best to pretend he was not in awe of the people he passed.

The luncheon was set up on tiered silver trays with leafy greenery dripping from the edges, making them seem like waterfalls of food. The tiny sandwiches balanced upon the trays were identical triangles, and each slice of cucumber glinted with precisely the correct amount of moisture, so as to suggest a crispness of texture without compromising on juiciness. The slices down on the fifty-sixth floor never looked quite so artfully arranged. Beneath the trays were small white porcelain plates, also marked with this month’s Tremptor logo, and beside them was an array of silver forks so well polished that Simone could see himself reflected in them. For a brief moment, Simone was horrified by his reflection – his pale face looked so bloated – before realising it was the shape of the fork distorting the image.

Of course, nobody was eating anything; there were too many perils involved. Simone imagined finding a crumb on his suit, or a smear of butter on his cheek, or, worst of all, a piece of lettuce stuck between his teeth, and shuddered.

“White on a Wednesday?” said a voice. “It’s simply incredible! Unheard of. It’s so subversive. The irony of it, and the precision of it.”

A woman in purple was posing beside a portrait of Trevor Tremptor. It was a well-chosen spot because she was being complemented by the sunlight currently cascading across the portrait (which was lending Trevor a celestial mystique).

“Thank you, darling,” said Simone, as was customary, and he shared an air-kiss with the woman. He caught a little of her scent during the kiss, and it lit up the corners of his mind.

“You smell like a garden on fire,” he said.

“Very perceptive,” she said, with a wink that rained purple glitter down her cheek from her dusted lashes. “It’s an exclusive Karpa Fishh blend. He cultivated a floral greenhouse over a period of twenty years, then burned it all in one go and bottled the scent. Beauty and destruction. Only a hundred bottles exist.”

“Simply marvellous.”

“You must be Simone,” she said, running her purple talons across the collar of her dress. The dress shimmered with the movement, the sequins acting like the scales of a fish, and Simone found himself staring at the colours, absorbed in their aesthetic finery. “The office is simply abuzz about you. I,” she said, gently running those same talons across the back of Simone’s hand, “am Justine.”

“It is splendid to meet you,” said Simone. He was suddenly very aware of the place he was standing – an awkward, unaesthetic place somewhere between the table and the portrait, with one of his shoes in the gush of daylight that illuminated Justine so ethereally. Glancing around, he attempted to quickly locate a better place in which to pose.

The room was full of fashionistas, all of whom seemed to have found perfect places. There was a man holding a plate of uneaten sandwiches, staring wistfully out of the broad windows, his face positioned to cast intricate shadows across his jaw from his extraordinarily sharp cheekbones, and there was a woman perched at the edge of a stool beside the door, her face arranged to make it seem as if she were amused by a private joke, and there was another man at the head of the table, where the overhead lights converged, with the back of his palm against his forehead, as if in an agony of indecision about where to eat his luncheon, and all of them were so brilliantly posed that Simone felt the panic rising inside him. If he did not find somewhere to stand, he would embarrass himself when Trevor Tremptor arrived.

As if sensing his panic, Justine gracefully stepped aside. “Here,” she whispered, her purple lips close to his ear. “You take the light. It will complement your paleness.”

With tremendous relief, Simone stepped into the daylight beside the portrait, feeling its warmth wash over him. Justine was right; the sun made his suit and his skin glow, and Simone instantly felt radiant, as if the light was coming from somewhere inside him. He quickly relaxed into a casual pose, arching his brows and pouting to make himself look thoughtful.

Without hesitation, Justine swept across to one of the potted plants nearby, which was tall and currently flowering pink. The flowers served to complement the purples of her dress, and she arranged herself to make it appear as if she were deeply absorbed in the scent of the plant, but Simone knew she had given up a superior place for him.

Trevor arrived in another gust of aesthetic superiority that made Simone feel unworthy, as if his very bones were arranged in unpleasing, ugly shapes. Trevor went from fashionista to fashionista, this time shaking hands and even smiling a little – an extraordinary expression that did nothing to crack his cosmetics, which said a lot for his skill. Simone only ever allowed himself at most three smiles a day; any more might compromise the integrity of his face. Eventually, Trevor made his way over to Simone and shook his hand, enveloping it in a grip so soft yet firm that Simone felt as if Trevor’s hand might be that of God himself. Then, in a rush of empty words that Simone barely registered, Trevor was gone. Everybody in the room seemed to relax.

“There,” said Justine, gliding across. “I think you pleased him.”

“Do you think?” Simone straightened his collar. Of course, his collar was already straight, but the gesture was considered a polite way of expressing nervousness without risking such dreadful things as wrinkling one’s brow.

“Yes,” she said. “I think you are extraordinary, Simone. Tell me – if I were to invite you to a little soirée this evening, would you say yes? I simply must show you off to my friends. There may even be a few magazines present – searching, as they do, for the latest in fashion news. I dare say your outfit may make some headlines.”

An invite to a party from one of the company’s most prolific fashionistas? “Of course!” he cried, perhaps a little too loud. Recovering himself, he tried again. “Of course, Justine. I would be delighted to attend. May I bring my wife?”

Justine parted her lips in a smile that did not reach her eyes, which was probably wise because it might have affected the eyeshadow darkening them like purple bruises. From between her painted lips, pearly teeth emerged. “Of course. I would be honoured to meet the spouse of such an innovative fashion icon,” she said.

* * *

The interior of the stretch limousine yawned out before Simone. He had tried to put as much distance between himself and its unfashionable driver as possible, but there was no escaping the fact it was still there, sat beyond the darkened partition. It was a wonder that the limousine, its every curve harmonious, its very length ostentatious, did not just open its driver-side door and vomit out its hideous chauffeur like a half-eaten meal. In fact, Simone imagined he would much rather see a vomited-up meal than endure the sight of the person sat behind the wheel of his car.

Of course, Simone was aware that the uglies were everywhere in his life. All the food had to come from somewhere, after all – and from time to time rooms did need a little redecoration in order to keep up with the latest trends. The uglies were usually very good at remaining out of sight, however, hiding away in their little alcoves and cupboards and such until everybody worth anything was gone and they could emerge, oozing into the light in order to maintain the lives of their betters. Simone enjoyed never having to think about them. The problem with the limousine was that he knew precisely where the wretched creature was, and what it was doing.

“Simone, darling?” Georgie was lounging across the dark leather seats nearby, a fluted crystal glass of something bubbly and golden fizzing between her fingers. She had cleverly opted to wear a pale suit of her own – a Messr Messr number that was just at the very edge of purple and might, at a stretch, be described as pink – in an effort to maintain the Wednesday fashion but also complement Simone’s own radically white attire. She had also slightly shadowed the underside of her slender jaw (a feature that Simone was most proud of in her) to make it as sharp as a knife, and thinned her lips to make them appear almost as deadly. Her hair was swept up above her, the same shade of light purple as her suit, and to Simone it looked like a swirl of blue candyfloss with a drop of blood mixed into it.

“Yes, dear heart?” he replied.

“You seem distracted.”

Simone realised he was slouching, and quickly straightened himself, snatching a fizzing glass of his own from the counter, inhaling deeply of it and letting the bubbles tickle the insides of his nostrils. “Did we remember to alter the limousine’s exterior?”

“Of course we did, darling.” The limousine’s chassis was equipped with colour-changing panels, allowing the owner to accessorise their car. For tonight’s event, Georgie had arranged the vehicle to be pearlescent, swirling between pearly white and glittering pink, so that when she and Simone stepped out it would complement their outfits. Simone breathed a sigh of relief, rippling his fizzy drink.

“Truth be told, dear heart, I am a tad nervous.”

“You do seem…” Georgie shifted her pose, leaning towards him. “…a little frayed.”

“Frayed?” Simone almost choked.

“Not to worry. I have something to help.” Opening her Vladstang leather clutch, which was studded with tiny pink gemstones that flashed in the limousine’s interior lighting, Georgie retrieved a small pink tin and unscrewed it, revealing a mound of white powder. “An electric blend, or so I’m told.”

“Oh, marvellous. I do love you so, Georgie.”

“And I love you, Simone.”

From his inner jacket pocket, Simone retrieved his straw, which was made of ivory to match his outfit. Carefully twisting it up one nostril (so as to leave his face undisturbed), Simone lowered the other end into the powder and began to inhale. He inhaled for a long time, until almost half of the powder was gone, and the limousine’s interior shone with a new light, as if all the tinted windows had been rolled down to let the sunset in. Only then did he unscrew the straw from his nose and sit back, sniffling slightly while the powder did its work. “It is, indeed, electric,” he said breathlessly.

Georgie inhaled the rest of the powder herself, in delicate little snorts.

At last, the limousine came to a halt, and Simone and Georgie emerged into the light. It proved to be an opportune moment, because the sunset was blushing a soft pink that really set off Georgie’s attire and the limousine’s panelling, and even served to soften Simone’s suit. If anybody had been around to behold their exit from the limousine, Simone imagined they would have applauded and taken pictures, but, as luck would have it, the driveway outside Justine’s house was filled with cars instead of people. Of course, there were the drivers of all the cars, hidden in their seats and no doubt admiring the illustrious arrival of Simone and Georgie, but Simone did not count them because they were all ugly.

Simone beheld the other cars. Of course there were a fair few limousines, each with its own set of adjustable panels, today set to varying shades of purple, but there were other cars as well – sleek sports cars, heavy muscle cars, and even faux-vintage vehicles, featuring not colour-changing panels but chrome so polished there seemed to be a whole other sunset taking place across them. Simone and Georgie spent a while standing before a particularly shiny example, admiring themselves together, and Simone felt a strong surge of affection for her; the way she complemented him with her every movement. Why, together they were more striking than the sky.

Another sunset was taking place across the house itself, which was not mirrored but set to mimic the magnificent view behind it, rendering its façade transparent. Disembodied windows hung on the horizon, and the front doorway stood at the precipice of the sharp cliff overlooking the city, as if one might step through and plummet down to the streetlights below (which were only now emerging in tandem with the stars in the sky). Simone felt a rush of vertigo as he approached the doors, which stood open to reveal the house’s interior – a palatial space brighter than the blushing sunset.

This was the most fabulous party Simone had ever been invited to.

The mirrored entrance hall hosted a thousand Simones and a thousand Georgies moving in perfect synchronicity, making their advance a dance, all of their mirror selves dancing along with them. Through an open side door was the cloakroom, and Simone slipped his jacket from his shoulders, attempting to find a vacant hanger along the racks. Everywhere he tried, a magnificent coat was already hanging; there were so many extraordinary designs crammed together that by the time he found a place, he was feeling giddy.

Triumphant, Simone turned to see Georgie, who was weeping.

Georgie was stood beneath one of the overhead lights so that the brightness of it splashed over her, making the parts of her capable of glinting glint. From her clutch she had taken a tiny bottle of tears (sourced, no doubt, from only the cleanest unfashionables) and had dripped several into her eyes to make them fill and glisten. Currently, there was a single droplet running down her face, rolling from the precise centre of her left eye. Georgie was a well-practised weeper, and Simone felt another rush of pride. Nobody else wept quite as beautifully as Georgie. “The furs!” she cried.

Simone turned and took stock of the racks hosting the furs, and they were so outrageously thick that they bulged outwards, as if they were competing with each other for the spotlight. There were a great many creatures he recognised – pink zebras, and purple cheetahs, and scarlet mink, each bred using the finest of fashion technology to bear the most luxurious coats imaginable – but there were some he did not. One particular specimen caught his eye, and he approached it warily, running his fingers down the pink-tinged fur.

“The hide of a polar bear,” Georgie whispered, as if she was afraid of disturbing the fur by speaking too noisily in its presence.

Simone was aghast. “This looks new! I thought they were extinct?”

“Very nearly, darling.”

Simone brushed the soft fur against his face. “I have never seen it in pink before.”

“I read about it in Fur and Fury. The bear is very carefully exsanguinated over a period of weeks so that its own blood gently dyes its coat.”

“Such suffering!”

“Isn’t it just exquisite?”

It was indeed exquisite. In fact, there were so many exquisite coats on the racks that Simone once again found himself feeling a wobble of nervousness. “Georgie, darling?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Do you have any more of your electric powder?”

“A touch.” She presented the remains of the tin to him, and he rubbed his finger around the rim, massaging every last particle into his gums. The powder gave him a little buzz that made him feel as if someone had switched on a spotlight in his brain, and he spent a moment inhaling and exhaling deeply, feeling his nervous wobble subside.

“Are you ready, dear heart?” enquired Georgie, her eyes sparkling with the remainder of her tears. There was still a trail of moisture down her cheek from the tear that fell, and she had placed a purple rhinestone at its point of termination beside her lip.

“I am, Georgie. Will you hold my hand?”

“Always.”

Hand in hand, they entered the party.

The runway was a rich purple carpet so brightly lit that it felt as if several suns shone upon it. At the head of the runway, Simone struck his finest pose: splaying his fingers at his neck, and turning his chin up and slightly to the right, to cast a complex series of shadows across himself with his fingers. A spotlight burned into his retinas, but he ignored the pain and continued glaring up at it, assured that the brightness was doing some rather marvellous things to bring out the whites of his eyeballs.

Simone felt the catwalk music tremble up through the base of his feet and into his veins, arteries and heart. This month, it was fashionable to play catwalk music at precisely one hundred and twenty beats per minute, which suited Simone very well because he was comfortable synchronising his heart rate to it. There had been a fashion, a few months ago, for music played at one hundred and eighty beats per minute, which had always left him breathless at parties. In fact, a great many of his friends had suffered heart attacks that month, which was very unfashionable indeed. Focusing on the burning white spotlight, Simone felt a small thrill as his heart synchronised with the beat. He was ready to make his entrance.

Justine had been kind enough to arrange for Simone to arrive last of all. It was an honoured position, especially at such a fabulous gathering as this, so Simone delivered his very best poses as he sashayed down the runway to the beat; all those special stances he had been saving up for an event as esteemed as this. Beside him, Georgie synchronised her movements to his, so that both of them moved in a gorgeous, flowing dance of beauty, their heart beats matching the beat and each other. Together, they moved from spotlight to spotlight, caught up in the splendid rhythm of the catwalk.

The applause was almost loud enough to be heard over the music. Simone, temporarily blinded, could not see beyond the drop at the edge of the runway, but no doubt beyond stood all manner of remarkable fashionistas, rapt at the display. This was his moment, he knew, and he felt electric in his radical white attire, as if he was brighter than any of the spotlights gushing over him. Why, were he to simply keel over and die at the end of the runway, Simone would consider his life a success, having culminated in such a moment as this.

Then there was the end of the catwalk, and the steps leading down to the party.

The music continued unabated, so loud that nobody could hear anybody else, but that didn’t matter. Simone moved among the glitterati and understood them better by their outfits, gestures and the particularities of their poses than any words might ever be able to convey, and right now they were telling him he was fabulous. It was in the way they arched their brows and angled their heads to look at him; it was in the way they tugged their cufflinks in his direction, and held their hands over their hearts, and regarded him through the lengths of their eyelashes; and it was in the way they had accessorised, choosing small pale touches for their outfits – perhaps a ring with a pink stone, or a small pink flower looped into a lapel – to honour his choice of white for the day.

The ballroom was mirrored, making the party appear endless. There were chandeliers above, composed of twists of crystal that cast complementary light over the entire room, making it so that anyone might strike a pose anywhere without worry of their immediate environment clashing with their outfits. Small tables stood everywhere, upon which pyramids of fizzing champagne glasses gleamed, untouched by all, and at the feet of those delicate pyramids were silver trays laden with piles of white powder, heaped so lavishly that a little haze rose above each powder mountain. Every now and then, a fashionista would delicately huff up a considerable amount, and yet there was so much of it that it seemed as if none of the mountains would ever be reduced to hills.

Taking his straw and carefully rolling it up one nostril, Simone leaned over and took in a steady stream of powder himself. The spotlights still burned in his eyes, so he snorted more than he was usually comfortable with, until every part of him tingled and the spotlights began to fade. Thus electrified, he spent a few moments admiring Georgie as she, in turn, inhaled a sizeable quantity of powder, turning her eyes slightly upwards so that she would appear in a state of elegant rapture while imbibing her fill. When she was sated, Simone took her by the hand again, and the two of them sauntered through the party, exchanging pleasantries with all they passed by offering appreciative glances and eyebrow raises.

There were a few photographers present, fashionable in their own peculiar ways. Simone always liked to see them – the way they crowded their heads with lenses that gleamed wonderfully no matter the lighting – but he was always a little afraid of them as well. There were some magazines that took delight in ridiculing the unfashionables, and from time to time one of Simone’s friends would be implicated in a dreadful scandal by one of them: exposed wearing the wrong kind of cravat, or captured standing in an ill-lit corridor, or, worst of all, caught wearing something out of season. Flash flash flash went their cameras, immortalising the illustrious glitterati, and Simone did his best to look as if he were paying them no attention at all.

Through the party Simone strutted, searching for its host.

After a while wandering the tables, and enjoying copious amount of white powder, it became apparent to Simone that Justine was not present. This was most peculiar, and it was reflected across the poses of the party. People tilted their heads, and held themselves at angles that denoted curiosity and anticipation, and Simone felt himself falling into the same arrangement, keeping his chin close to his shoulder as if glancing over it, in case she might somehow appear behind him, and walking in slow loops around tables, as if she might always be hiding somewhere along its far edge. Perhaps, Simone thought, she had left already? It was plausible that someone as fabulous as Justine might have left her own party early, in order to attend an even more exclusive event elsewhere.

Suddenly, the music stopped and the room was plunged into darkness.

There were ripples of little gasps, and the gentle tinkle of crystals. A single spotlight snapped on, highlighting the far end of the room with dazzling white light, where a tall, white staircase met a mirrored wall. New music began, but this was not the precise one hundred and twenty beats per minute that Simone had synchronised his heart to – no, this music was orchestral, and flowed from the staircase, as if making an announcement. Without the rhythm of the beat, Simone felt his heart jostle in his chest, leaping about inside him with all manner of nervousness. It was most unbecoming.

At the head of the staircase, the mirrored wall slid open and Justine emerged.

She looked like a perfect corpse.

Justine was wearing a white cotton dress designed with a mastery that utterly defied its unadorned simplicity; though the dress was undecorated, and made of an apparently inferior material, it drew the eye across its subject in a way that lent it a poetic rhythm, flattering her wonderfully. So too was her face decorated: intricately designed to make it look as if she wore no powders, or creams, or liners, or lipsticks at all. This, combined with the way she had rendered the pallor of her skin a ghastly ivory, had the effect of making her look dead. Why, the shadows under her eyes – she might have passed away mere moments ago!

The response from the party was ecstatic. The applause was loud enough to drown out the orchestral music, which Simone only now realised was a dirge. Hundreds of exquisitely manicured hands met, serenading her descent to the party below, the spotlight following each step. And she wasn’t even wearing any shoes! She padded down on bare feet, her manicured toenails exposed for all the world to see, and her audience began to cheer, convinced, just as Simone was, that she might have just stood up from a mortuary slab.

Cameras flashed everywhere.

Simone realised his fists were clenched at his sides, and was hasty to correct his mistake. Were he to not applaud Justine, he would be seen to be ungrateful for the honoured arrival time she had given him. So, clenching his teeth together, he began to clap, trying to slow his heart, which was beating furiously against his ribcage.

Sensing Simone’s discomfort, Georgie took him by the arm and whispered in his ear, “Simply marvellous, isn’t she?”

Retaining his composure, Simone hissed back through his teeth, “She upstaged me.”

“Yes, darling. But this is her party.”

“She upstaged me, by using my look, and doing it better than me.”

With Justine’s descent complete, the lights came back on and the thumping one-hundred-and-twenty beats per minute music resumed. Georgie gently towed Simone to one of the quieter corners of the room, where there was a long bar at which all manner of fabulous people were mixing rainbow cocktails. Simone usually enjoyed cocktails – he liked the way the colours of them ran together, no doubt rendering his interior just as fabulous as his exterior when he drank them, staining his stomach with all their vividness – but he was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything. Nobody was paying him any attention, he noticed; all eyes were turned instead to the party’s host. Simone had been forgotten.

Taking a cocktail in each hand – after making certain their colours complemented his and Georgie’s attire – Simone strolled out beyond the doors at the end of the bar and on to the veranda. The veranda was open to the sky and constructed with the same panelling as the rest of the house, making it look as if the swimming pool was floating in mid-air. So too did it seem as if Simone strolled, god-like, high above the city; the hideous masses crawled in the dirt below, while the glorious glitterati walked on air. At the edge of the veranda Simone sipped at his cocktails and felt his heart flutter.

Above, the stars glittered, and below, the city glittered.

There was a full moon tonight, and while it was fashionable to admire the moon, Simone secretly hated it because of the way it was pock-marked and asymmetrical, resembling the faces of the dreadful uglies who never bothered to correct any of their natural deformities. Indeed, the veranda was lit by a selection of superior pale globes, suspended above the swimming pool, and they had no such scars and craters inflicted upon them. Simone glared up at the moon, draining his cocktails and imagining, in delicious detail, throwing Justine off the edge of her own veranda.

Georgie emerged from the shadows with a silver tray, heaped so high with white powder that a little drifted from the edges. “Here, darling,” she said gently. “A little something to raise your spirits. You were wonderful tonight. I promise.”

“Was I?”

“The applause for your entrance still rings in my ears.”

Simone placed his empty glasses upon the edge of the tray and retrieved his straw from his inner pocket, using it to inhale powder until it began to sting his throat. Then, he continued to inhale, gulping so much powder that the world turned bright and swirled around him. Only when his vision began to wheel did he stop, almost choking when he took a step back. Georgie steadied him with an arm. “Darling?”

“Wonderful,” said Simone. “Simply wonderful.”

There was something about the way the light of the globes suspended above the pool refracted through the gently rippling water that attracted Simone, and he wandered across, delighted at the glowing patterns. Standing at the very edge, so that the tips of his shoes almost, but not quite, touched the water, Simone began to feel better.

A drop of something dark fell into the water.

The black liquid, whatever it was, began to spread out like ink, and Simone watched it in horror, unable to draw his eyes from the tentacle-like extremities of it, spreading like an infection. There was a small splash as a second droplet fell, and then a third, mingling and intertwining and staining the pool with darkness. Watching those dreadful droplets dissipate, Simone began to feel dizzy, as if he might topple over and into the pool himself, dissolving like one of them.

“Simone!” It was Georgie. She sounded panicked. Dragging his eyes from the horror of the pool, Simone turned to see her aghast, eyes wide, hands raised in horror, as if she might have to hide herself from the sight of him.

It was then that Simone felt the wetness on his upper lip. Dabbing a finger experimentally at it produced the same black liquid that had fallen into the pool. Hardly daring to breathe, Simone glanced down at his suit, and saw there were droplets of it everywhere, smearing it with darkness. “Georgie?” Simone was suddenly terribly afraid.

“Your nose.” Her voice trembled. “It’s bleeding.”

Being foolish enough to wear something unfashionable could result in the subject being ostracised and mocked almost indefinitely. Accidentally wearing a past-season wardrobe was enough to warrant exile from polite society. But having an actual bodily fluid drip out of your nose and stain your suit? Why, it was worse than unheard of. It was mortifying! Simone knew he would never be able to show his face again.

He glanced about, splattering his shoulders with more of his own blood. Luckily, it didn’t look as if there was anybody else out on the veranda; only he and Georgie were visible. Georgie herself was breathing heavily and doing everything in her power to avoid looking at him, turning her eyes to the moon, the stars, the pool, the city. “Georgie,” said Simone. “We must leave. Quickly. Before I am noticed.”

“Yes. Yes!” She raised one trembling finger to the darkest corner of the veranda. “There is a back gate! Perhaps we might be able to reach the limousine unseen?”

Quickly, they hastened across. Clear glass steps descended to the dark driveway ahead, where all the cars idled. More droplets of blood oozed down Simone’s suit, and he paused momentarily, trying to stop the flow from his nose by pressing his fingers to it. The gesture only served to increase the blood pouring from him, so he removed his hand and flicked his fingers, spraying droplets over the edge of the cliff.

There was a sudden bright flash, and the whir of a camera from somewhere across the veranda. Someone had taken a picture.