1 - Welcome to London, Buttercup #2
“They’re well. Your mother is very excited,” his lips curl into a small smirk.
The defeated groan that slips from my throat has him cackling.
I press my hand to my forehead and exhale. “Still?” I sigh, smoothing out the wrinkles in my pink Chanel tea dress. “I guess I should go visit before I head home.”
“Want me to swing by now? I can drop your luggage off for you afterwards.”
“That would be fantastique, Nico. You’re too good to me.”
“Your father would barbecue my bollocks if I wasn’t, miss.”
I snort a laugh.
As we drive further into the heart of the city, the shops become more luxurious.
High-end boutiques and multi-level department stores selling exclusive garments and merchandise, designed with a precise type of customer in mind—me.
My eyes scan the signs: Armani, A Papa knows some of the best lawyers in the field. But people do ridiculous things when they’re pissed off.
I crane my neck up to the creative signage, showcasing Galerie Rousseau in bold cursive font.
The gallery’s frontage, crafted entirely from glass, offers a transparent invitation to the world within.
Sitting atop the slick vinyl sign, perched nonchalantly upon the letter ‘R’ is a single magpie. A single soggy magpie.
Perfect.
That about sums up my life now. Sorrowful. Pitiful.
I have Mama to thank for that too; for making me obsessed with the monochrome avians and the silly little superstitious rhyme that follows them around.
It’s a shame because they are actually rather pretty, with their striking streaks of blue and green.
Alas, to me they signify bad omens. I rarely ever spot more than one.
With a sigh I open the door, and a little bell chimes above my head. I wait in the foyer, dripping puddles of water onto the polished marble floor beneath my feet. The walls are white; everything is white; clinical. Galleries always have that same feeling, I find.
Paintings, photographs, and prints hang across the surfaces, placed lovingly with the precision that could only be associated with an artist…or someone with excessive OCD. The spaces between the frames measure to the millimetre. Nothing is left to chance in this game.
A particular sepia-toned photograph catches my eye. Depicting a wild stallion rearing on its hind legs, long mane flowing in silken sheets. Even though I’m studying photography in college, Mama would never display my work. It would be her worst nightmare: to be outshone by her own daughter.
My life’s dream is to travel. Journey to every continent, every corner of the world with my camera. Using each opportunity to create masterful pieces of artwork that might one day inspire Mama to say the words I’ve waited a lifetime to hear.
I’m proud of you.
“Cordelia! Darling! You made it!”
I drag my gaze away from the photograph to where she’s peeking around the frame of a white door towards the back of the room. I appease her with a fake smile.
“Oui,” I mumble, eyes roving, looking at anything but her. “Place looks nice.”
“Doesn’t it?” She gushes, her baby blues wide and animated. “I’ve ordered 1000 canapes for opening night, and your father is sourcing the champagne. Now, I couldn’t decide between the salmon and the foie gras mousse, so I just requested both.”
“Perfect,” I grind out, trying my hardest not to sound like a bitch. What I honestly want to tell her is that nobody will give two shits if she serves cat food on a cracker as long as there’s booze. Humans are fickle creatures.
“Isn’t it? Oh, and I’ve purchased that gorgeous Roberto Cavalli dress for you. The one that’s encrusted with Swarovski crystals.”
I know which one she means. It’s got just enough fabric to keep things decent. Basically, she wants to parade me around as a glorified server with a tray of champagne flutes.
Eurgh. Her company is tiresome.
“I’m going to get some air. The flights got me feeling a bit peaky,” I announce.
“But ma puce, it’s raining—”
I’ve made a break for it before she can finish. British weather be damned. The rain’s only a trickle, still miserable, but not enough to keep me holed up in that room with her.
Water splashes up my calves as my kitten heels skid against the rain-slicked pavement.
Far from ideal footwear for the occasion, but they bought me comfort on the journey over.
How was I to know a hasty escape would be on the cards so soon?
The sky is almost black now, and the streetlights are flickering to life.
Shopkeepers and restaurateurs have drawn their shutters, and the city’s hustle and bustle fades into quiet calm.
The soles of my feet are burning when the heavens open up unexpectedly.
The rain comes down like a monsoon; fast, merciless, and within seconds the waters dripping off my body.
With soggy hair plastered to my face, and my dress skintight, I might as well be auditioning for a wet t-shirt competition.
What did I do to deserve this? I’ve always been a good girl, a little stroppy at times, but we all have our vices.
This city has done nothing but kick my arse since I arrived.
Up ahead, raised voices pique my interest over the thrum of the downpour.
It’s difficult to make out any words or sentences, but a faint glow seeps beneath the half-open door ahead.
My brain forces me to hesitate. It’s never sensible to walk into the unknown, but my feet seem to sweep me in that direction of their own accord.
Maybe because deep down I crave the drama.
And for anyone to pay attention. Real attention; not the bought kind.
For years, Mama tried to compensate for her absence by showering me with lavish garments and trinkets I’ll never have a use for.
If only she would give me an allowance instead, I’d have my freedom.
But I should get my head out of the clouds; it will never happen.
This way she gets to keep me in her claustrophobic bubble, monitoring and manipulating every decision I attempt to make.
London is mundane, grey and already boring. And that’s why I’m stupid enough to step into the building.
The door creaks open, revealing a set of concrete stairs that appear to lead to a rooftop level.
Inhaling a deep breath and dismissing my aching calves, I scramble up the stone steps. My thumb and index finger squeeze together, rubbing the soft pads against each other, as the anxiety crawls up my spine. Anxiety, but also a flutter of something else—excitement, anticipation?
As I approach the top, the voices increase in depth and volume. Men. The rational part of my brain tells me to turn and run, but then a distressed cry echoes off the grey walls, and the decision is out of my hands.
“Fuck! Help, hel—”
“No one’s coming to save you, Fionn, you little prick,” a gruff voice growls.
From my position, it’s impossible to see much besides the broad shoulders of the guy who’s yelling.
There’s a person on the floor in front of him, but his large frame blocks my view.
With my heart racing in my chest, I kick off my heels and crawl behind an HVAC unit to get a better look. The perfect hiding place.
The soft glow from the overhead floodlights grants enough light to distinguish the scene before me.
The guy lying on the ground is living in his own personal hell, beaten to within an inch of his life.
Busted lip, broken nose, blood oozing from multiple open wounds.
The harsh torrent assaults his naked chest whilst he shakes like a leaf in a weathered storm.