Page 3 of Desperate Lies
Sylvie Marchetti.
Her boss gave her the membership as a job perk, but as far as I’m aware, she’s never used it. Probably because it’s weird and creepy that he would do that. She has no idea I know she has a membership at all, let alone that I might pilfer her card and come myself. Or that I’ve been doing exactly that since I was eighteen. I’ve never told her because we don’t really see eye-to-eye on these things. She’s the good girl; the one who always stays in Dad’s favour and does exactly what he wants, including agreeing to date a man he chose for her. She’d probably think it’s unhinged to want to go to a sex club at all, let alone on the night you’ve publicly ended your engagement.
Maybe it is a bit unhinged, but then, Ifeelunhinged. Out of orbit. Overwhelmed. Delirium is the one place I know I’ll be able to lose myself in the experience. Forget who I am. Forget everything I’ve been through.
When I get there, I won’t have to be Diana Marchetti, runaway almost-bride, prodigal daughter.
Disgrace.
I can let all of that go. Pretend to be someone else. Nameless. Unanchored and unknown. Complete anonymity. No attachments. For a few hours, I can pretend that I don’t have to wake up tomorrow and face the mess I’ve made.
The fact that I’ll get to have sex and, with any luck, a few decent orgasms, is a bonus. I might not have mastered the financial independence step on the path to freedom, but Icanchoose the next man I sleep with.
My body. My choice.
No more arranged marriages for me.
I drop my bag to the floor and sit for a while longer, breathing steadily, flicking my nail repeatedly over Sylvie’s membership card.
Once I’m feeling calmer, and even a little excited at the prospect of my night of sexual freedom—unhinged as it may be—I grab my bag again and pull out the change of clothes I packed earlier today when I was planning this escape, and start stripping.
I’m ready for this. I, Diana Marchetti, am ready to symbolically—and sexually—reclaim my independence.
The driver’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror as I yank off the formal peach silk dress I was wearing while still playing the role of the future Mrs Hawkston.
Future Mrs Nothing.
“Eyes on the road,” I say with a smirk, getting into character as I shimmy into tonight’s dress: a glittering magenta sequin number. Thin straps skim my shoulders, and the hem doesn’t reach mid-thigh. I’m more skin than anything, but given where I’m going and what I’m going there for, it seems appropriate.
He makes a clicking sound with his mouth and shifts his focus back to the road. “Right you are.”
I change my shoes, spritz a bit of my special night-out perfume (a little heavier and muskier than my usual), slick on another layer of bright pink lipstick, then pull out the Venetian mask.
It’s masquerade night at Delirium; I was delighted when I realised the happy coincidence of timing.Total freedom on the very night I want it most.
I fix the pink and gold feline mask in place and edge up in my seat to get a glimpse in the mirror. It covers the upper half of my face; enough to make me unrecognisable, at least to people who don’t know me. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be able to tell me apart from Sylvie unless they knew me really well.
“Better without the mask,” the driver grumbles.
Laughter pops out of my mouth. “Why, thank you kindly, sir,” I say, testing out my American southern drawl. Fuck pretending to be Sylvie tonight. That’s far too close to home. Tonight, I’m channelling some Scarlett O’Hara and hoping no one questions me on it, which they won’t. My mother is from Atlanta, and I’ve been mimicking her perfectly for years. The driver laughs at the change in my voice, and for a second, I feel a happy burst of connection with another human that chases away some of the shadows in my mind.
As our laughter settles, the cab rolls up to the destination address—an enormous white gated property not far from Hyde Park.
London is a small place, especially when the astronomical membership cost to this particular club filters society even further. There’s a chance I might know someone in here, but I’m willing to take the risk. Besides, if they’re here too, then we’re after the same thing.
No shame in that.
I thank the driver, tuck my bag over my shoulder, exit the cab, and head up the steps to the black lacquer front door, reminding myself of my three rules:
1. No married men.
2. No names.
3. No repeats.
They keep me safe, and I stick to them like glue. No deviation. I’m good at picking the right men, and so far, my instincts have never been wrong.
I nod to the bouncers; two large, well-dressed men with close cropped beards. Handsome, stylish; discreet but powerful. That just about sums up the vibe of this place. Sexual liberation, money, power, and absolutely no fucking shame.
