Page 10 of Forsaking All Others

“Oh, that would be amusing,” he’d chortled. “How would you eliminate them? Fuck them to death?”

We’d both laughed at this imagery.

But right now, I’m not laughing.

Countries, numbers, names, it doesn’t matter how I label them; they’re all human women. Women with families, hopes and dreams, with feelings, with the ability to love and be loved.

And I don’t eat those anymore.

I can’t.

Yet somehow these twenty-four contestants must be whittled down to one.

“Thank you, Mahsa,” I murmur as I follow her to the centre of the room and immediately become surrounded.

7

He seems uncomfortable, more uncomfortable even than I am, as he enters the room.

The Iranian hands him a drink first, even though several women were holding glasses in the hope of being the first to serve him.

I watch as a few surreptitiously place their drinks back on the bar or on any other surface they can, and I can’t help but smirk.

The bachelor, ignorant of the silent battle just lost by most, nods his head and listens as the women surrounding him try to impart witty comments or ask memorable questions. He laughs politely where he should, acknowledges compliments with grace, but if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

Thorun and I stay seated, quietly sipping our drinks and watching those jockeying for position. Some of their demeanours are worthy of an Oscar. Slated, darkly ambitious glances behind his back, puss-in-boots eyes when he gives them his attention.

“They’re all so beautiful,” Thorun whispers. “How will he choose?”

A saying comes to mind, ‘beauty is as beauty does,’ and I wonder that Thorun can’t see the ugliness beneath these make-up-slathered facades, and if the bachelor, too, is blinded by their looks, or can see their true colours.

‘But then, maybe it’s better he can’t.’

“He’ll choose through a process of elimination,” I snort.

She turns to me and smiles.

I’m about to disabuse her of her earlier suggestion that she’ll return home, when the show’s presenter, Clyde Starlen, enters the room, and there’s a collective gasp of pleasure from the contestants, and loud applause.

He waits until it dies down before giving a sweeping bow and straightening to smile at those fawning over him. I’d call his smile smarmy, but it’s worse than that; it’s downright slimy.

As he taps a glass with one long fingernail, the hubbub in the room dies down.

“Well, well, welcome, beautiful contestants, to the Vampire Bachelor Games. As you know, over the coming weeks you’ll all vie for the hand and the heart of one of the world’s most sought-after, and some would say, private, royal vampires; Viscount Jaguar Speardon of Versailles Province.”

He holds up his hand to stall the new round of applause and cheers from the women.

“We don’t know as much about him as we would like,” he goes on, “apart from what we can glean from the tabloids. But you’ve been given this rare opportunity to get to know him because you’re special. Take every opportunity you can over the coming weeks to spend time with him because, as you know, there will only be one left standing.”

He nods imperceptibly to the director.

“Cut!”

The make-up people rush in and pat his face, applying this and that, although he’s literally just walked in and surely doesn’t need it. Waving them off, he indicates he’s ready once more to continue addressing us.

“And…Action!”

“There’s no doubt about it. This game is going to take everything from you and still ask for more. But love isn’t supposed to be easy — it’s supposed to be worth it. YOU are worth it.”