Chapter 2 Victoria
VICTORIA
PLAYLIST: YOU DON’T OWN ME – LESLEY GORE
Idaresay I have seen just about anything in men on this earth, but what I witnessed just now was the most pathetic of the lot.
Women these days have all the choices, all the possibilities, and yet they give their time away to these absolute losers.
I am so distracted by what happened at the table next to me that I have completely forgotten what I came here to do.
I cannot believe the man walked away before the woman even had her coat on. No manners and interest on his part, and no standards on hers.
When I look at her with her natural dark blonde hair in a messy bun, her jeans and a probably hand-knitted sweater, I am not surprised. I can smell the people-pleaser from here all the way to Wembley.
She looks at me with wide eyes and repulsion. Everyone I know calls me an insufferable meddler, a title I wear with pride. Meddling is my favourite business. I simply cannot help it.
“He—he’s not—“ she stammers. “Just a colleague.”
“Not for him,” I say. “He walked out here believing he had the date of his life.”
“Surely not,” she says defiantly—apparently completely clueless. “That wasn’t even a date—“
“I’d bet my entire fortune on it, dearest,” I say as I get up and walk around my table, take the coat from her hands and hold it for her to get into.
I know I am impressive to the ordinary eye: tall, well-dressed, colourful, and confident—her reaction confirms as much. Her eyes widen for a moment, and she opens her mouth to say something, but no words come.
She gets into the coat. A wave of her scent trails into my nose, a soft, unobstrusive vanilla that calls for devotion and invisibility.
A refreshing change to the people I usually deal with: the wealthy, the famous, the ones living by status and presence—overall, those who like to make a statement with their expression.
“That is what a man should do,” I tell her. “He should also ask you questions and pay, which is lower than the bare minimum.”
She turns to me and looks me in the eyes with her wide hazel doe eyes.
Oh, to be young and foolish.
She hurries away without another word, leaving her bag on the chair where she placed it to put on her coat.
“Miss,” I call after her, but she simply hurries outside without another glance back.
My eyes follow her outside. I grab her bag and sit down again to finish my Martini, waiting for her return. She surely must notice it at some point.
I focus back on my notepad in front of me.
I came here for the silence after meeting a friend at the University of Greenwich about a film project some of her students are planning, but now my mind is distracted.
Not because of the project; the project will be phenomenal because I will give the students a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
My mind is distracted by the woman who still hasn’t returned. I’d describe it as sloppy and careless, if not for suspecting that she might be too scared of returning—because of me.
“Can I bring you another?” asks the waiter, and I nod. Meanwhile, my phone rings.
“Yes,” I say when I answer the call, seeing it’s my assistant.
“The lilies are white instead of black,” she says. “I checked the order form, and we checked black, but delivery is white. I already tried to get them elsewhere, but not at that amount. What do you want me to do?”
I take a deep breath. My assistant is a sweet girl, extraordinarily good at organising and coordinating, but she is too lenient and understanding for the hardcore business.
“Tell him he either has 8000 black lilies at the venue before the bell chimes five, or he can close his business. Victoria Fitzroy says hello.”
My assistant sighs and hangs up. I empty my Martini, grab my notebook and the woman’s bag, pay with a generous tip, and leave.
My valet, Henry, awaits me, holding the door open.
In the car, I take a look at the bag. If I am not entirely mistaken, that bag is hand-knitted as well. I unpack it and find nothing except a folder and school materials.
Mia Phillips, I read off the folder. 3rd Year. Apparently, she is a primary school teacher. Fits the optics.
I take my phone.
“I need you to find someone for me,” I say when the ringing stops and Hailie, my woman for all things tracking, answers the call. “Her name is Mia Phillips, teaches 3rd year, somewhere in or around Greenwich. I need an address.”
A moment of silence follows.
“60 Hardy,” she says and hangs up. She was never one for many words, and her name is an alias, but I like the efficiency, at least in matters like this.
“You heard,” I say, and Henry sets the car in motion.
It takes us three minutes by car. I stare at the block of flats, its dull bricks offering no charm. Exactly what I imagined her to live in.
Henry opens the door, and I get out. As I walk up to the house, I know why I live in Belgravia. The dullness of life here would kill me.
I scan for her name. Interestingly enough, it is not the only one on it.
I ring.
Nothing happens.
I wait.
And then the buzzer goes off.
Not even an intercom.
I walk up two staircases of tedious boredom, the very same that the house is dipped in. When I reach the nasty orange flat door, I see a woman who isn’t the one the bag belongs to standing in the doorway. She also wears no trousers and a shirt with holes. I have landed in rat country.
“Oh my god,” gasps the woman. She apparently recognises me.
“Mia Phillips,” I say. “Is she there?”
“I—um,” the woman stammers and then shouts, “Miaaaaaa, are you home?”
Her voice resounds through the staircase like a never-ending canon blast.
“What’s up, Bella?” asks Mia from somewhere in the flat.
“Victory Fitzroy,” says the woman named Bella as if she can’t believe her own words. “At our door.”
“Who?” asks Mia, and Bella groans.
Mia acts exactly as she looks. I have expected nothing else, and I can’t get fast enough out of this building.
The door opens wider, and Bella withdraws. Mia sees me, and horror appears on her face.
“You forgot something,” I say, holding out her bag. She stares at me as if I were a ghost.
“How did you find me here?” she finally brings over her lips.
“I am a resourceful person,” I say and chuckle. “I also make an effort, unlike most men.” That should be her lesson.
“I don’t need men to make an effort,” she says defiantly. “Nor do I have to impress them.”
“And why is that? Because you don’t feel worthy enough?” I know I can come across as harsh, but this is my personality, and I don’t make myself small to be likeable.
Mia's eyes harden.
“You may think less of me because I don’t live up to your standards,” she says, “But at least I’m not a wealthy, egocentric prick. Must be lonely there when you have nothing better to do than this.”
She turns and slams the door in my face.
I wait.
She opens it again and rips the bag from my hand.
“See,” I call after her as I turn and leave. “You have standards. You just don’t have them around men.”
She looks at me like a reproachful teenager who has been busted doing something forbidden.
Tickling people where it hurts most is something I quite enjoy, especially in people who lead such basic lives.
Not because I enjoy inflicting pain, I do, in other matters, but I like to uncover the truth of human nature.
If there is one thing I have learned over the many years of my life, it is that still waters run deep—they just need the right person to dive into their depths with.
“Alright, Henry,” I say when I’m back at the car. “Get me to the venue.”
Tomorrow’s event will be one the world has yet to see, though few know about it. But for those who know, it’ll be something they have never experienced before. I say that with the knowledge that my clients can buy whatever thrill and experience they want.
The events I create are one-of-a-kind. For the wealthy elites, those who are everybody to the world and wish to become nobody for a night of frivolous hedonism.
Something a select group of people is willing to pay dearly for.
In return, they expect not perfectionism, but a rush.
And that rush, the exhilaration, is what I deliver.
The entire ride to the venue, my mind lingers with the woman I just met. I cannot distinguish what it exactly is about her, but my mind is occupied.
It is not only her last sentence, in which she verbally attacked me; she is right about everything she said, and I would rather enjoy my life that way. I feel a certain curiosity towards her.
She is clearly untroubled by men, so it leaves me wondering if she is a woman of different tastes, the same I am inclined to.