Chapter Two #3
Artie tips his head to the side as he studies it and then looks away quickly from the image of the lord taking his lady in no uncertain terms from behind.
Poor Artie. Only a week or two back he was subjected to the sight of an octogenarian vagina.
It’s been a baptism of fire and, to his credit, he’s taken to it like a natural.
He clears his throat before he speaks up. “I’m not the boss, actually, Lord Letterman. Melody is.”
Artie nods toward me and Marina, and she in turn jerks her thumbs in my direction as if Barty really should have known better.
“You guys sure have some cool names.” Barty smiles genially. He glances toward me for a split second, dismisses me, and focuses his attention on Marina. This has happened lots of times over the years, mainly because Marina is jaw-droppingly gorgeous and I’m more niche.
Don’t get me wrong, I have my charms. I inherited my dad’s round, dark eyes, the exact shade of early morning espresso brewed in a backstreet Italian coffeehouse.
I know this because my mother tells me every so often.
Rome was one of the few trips she got to experience with my dad, and back then she marveled at how the deep chestnut-brown brew was a perfect Pantone match with his eyes.
When I was a child my gran used to call me her perfect pocket peach, because I’m pint-sized and I have a classic peaches-and-cream complexion, not to mention that a certain rock pool–eyed reporter recently told me that the need to have wild sex with me keeps him awake at night.
So yeah, I’m not without my charms or low on self-confidence, but Marina…
she’s a visual feast. Tall and foxy, all curves and teeth and Sicilian drama.
She knows how to work it too. Never seen in public without her heels and her fire engine–red lipstick, Marina doesn’t buy jeans unless it looks as if someone applied them with a spray gun.
“And you are?”
Marina watches him shrewdly. “Marina Malone. As in the ocean.”
“A beautiful tropical reef,” Barty says.
She nods, laughs lightly, in a way the uninitiated might take as friendly. “Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water.” She sweetens the unmistakable Jaws tagline with a perfect smile, but her warning is clear.
“Then you must be Melody.” Barty turns to me, adding, “As in a song.”
He breaks into a few bars of “Unchained Melody” and I fix my smile because I’ve only heard that joke about a million times in my life already.
After a few tumbleweed seconds he shrugs, then turns to push open a broad, heavy door to his left.
“Get a load of this.” He inclines his head for us to go inside, so I lead the way.
Holy frickin’ moly. I feel as if I am Hermione Granger walking into an enchanted Hogwarts ball.
Our collective jaws hit the floor as we come to a standstill and gaze, awestruck, around the vast ballroom.
Now, I’m not a girl given to soppy movies or romance novels; that’s Marina’s bag.
But, oh my God, where are all the princes?
I can’t dance to save my life, but right this second I want a dashing hero in full military dress to appear and formally request my next dance. I could waltz. How hard can it be?
It really is the prettiest of rooms. The walls are the same pale blue as fragile song thrush eggshells with frescos of waist-high summer flowers detailed in a pastel palette of pinks, yellow, mint, and lavender.
It feels as if we have walked into a wild meadow so lush and perfect that I can almost smell the honeysuckle, so unexpected that I can almost hear birdsong.
It reminds me of a movie that Marina made me endure once, one where animated bluebirds land on the heroine and do all of her cleaning for her while she prances around and warbles a happy song. See what I mean about Marina? She’s nails, and then she’s cotton candy.
“I feel like Cinder-fuckin’-rella,” she mutters under her breath, thankfully loud enough for only me to hear.
“We’re thinking of throwing a welcome party, try out the space for size,” Barty says.
I badly want to come to that party. “Fancy dress?” Marina asks hopefully.
Barty begins to explain some of the room’s fascinating history, including how the beautiful frescoes were commissioned as a wedding gift from Lord Alistair Shilling for his bride, Eleanor.
But my attention is pulled instantly away from him toward the extraordinary man who has just materialized through the wall at the far end of the room.
He strides toward us like a matador, and I’m surprised that no one else can hear the staccato click of his heels as they hit the well-polished parquet.
He’s scowling, a full, dark simmer of an expression that gives him a monobrow and sends a shiver down my spine.
You know those black-and-white yesteryear posters for strong men at the circus?
The ones with a stocky, handsome man with slicked-back hair, a handlebar mustache, and a stripey vest?
He looks as if he just stepped out of one of those because he’s furious someone stole his dumbbell.
He’s closer now, and I have to admit he’s quite a looker.
Brooding and charismatic, he marches right on up to Barty and halts, banging his heel hard against the floor for emphasis, even though no one else can hear him.
His trousers are skintight—leggings almost—and, okay I admit it, his extremely defined package catches my eye.
Don’t judge me. I don’t get out much and the man is clearly hung like an elephant.
“I wish you to leave! You and that awful little woman, go now and leave us alone!”
He is properly squared up to Barty, fists clenched, while Barty is completely oblivious and giving us too much information about the restoration of the no-less-than-four whopping ballroom chandeliers.
Artie is at least attempting to ask pertinent questions, and Marina halfheartedly nods while probably imagining herself disco dancing dressed as Rizzo from Grease.
The ghost must know that Barty cannot hear his rage, yet still he continues, waving his fist sometimes.
It’s difficult to follow the fast, angry flow of his words, as English is clearly not his first language.
Going on the visual and audio clues, I’d say he was probably Mediterranean—Italian, Spanish, Portuguese?
I wonder if he’s connected to the bombshell from beside the fireplace in the lounge.
They sure would have made a striking couple in their heyday.
I’m getting a performer’s vibe from them both, which is confirmed when a second, taller, equally furious man bursts through the wall.
His scarlet-red coat with brass buttons and black-and-white striped trousers leave me in no doubt as to his profession.
This guy is every inch the ringmaster, right down to his mirror-polished shoes and his equally shiny brass-handled whip.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Dynamo!” he bellows, and then cracks his whip as hard as he can on the floor with a terrifying snap. His eyes flash bright with fury and then he opens his mouth and shouts again.
“Goliath! Kill!”