'He wants us both.'
'Both of who?'
'Both of us! Or both of me, I guess, since you started being my twin.'
'Oh, right!' Now you get it.
'That's a yes, doll?' She doesn’t wait for an answer. 'Get over here then '
There's none of the usual mocking challenge to get you to admit you want to break out of your Goody Two Shoes life before she lets you into hers.
She repeats the hotel name twice without any attempt at giving you details. It's completely in character for her to tell you as little as possible, or to give you some detail solely to unnerve you, but something about the way the call started with such obviously fake delight niggles at you.
"Well?" she asks. She's sounding more and more like her usual self as the call goes on.
Something isn't quite right about the switch from BFF to normal Giselle. It's not the terseness that's the strange part, it's the enthusiasm. Unless that was just for the client's benefit, you suppose. You can either pass up on the offer, although it was more like a command, and pluck up the courage to try again another night, or go and see for yourself what's happening. Whatever it is, it certainly won’t be as boring as sitting at home all dressed up with nowhere to go.
Or...
4
At the hotel lobby, you scope the layout while pretending to look for something in your bag, like your room key. Sailing through as if you own the place is the only way to pass as someone with the money-built confidence to belong here. The slightest hesitation and they'll spot you for the interloper you are.
And an intruder into another world is certainly what you feel like. The high concept white and platinum décor and dim up-lighting is the kind of minimalist design that takes maximum spend. Scrabbling in your bag is not giving off the sure-of-yourself vibe you're after, so you aim straight for the lift which opens immediately.
It only just occurs to you as you press the button for 11 that Giselle has given you a floor number but no room. You'll have to work it out when you get there. Maybe she's got a Do Disturb sign on the door. You wonder what kind of room service you're about to provide.
'In a good mood?' Giselle's voice suddenly asks from above your head. It sounds as if she's in the lift with you and you glance around before you can stop yourself.
'Over he-e-re.' Her voice bounces, sing-songy and patronising, off the metal walls. A panel next to the lift buttons lights up and, for a moment, you think you're looking at yourself but then you realise it's Giselle from the waist up, sitting in front of someone's torso. She's wearing only a sheer red bra that moulds to her breasts and shades her nipples into rosebuds.
'Told you,' she says over her shoulder.
Told who what? But then, it's clear who as a man places a hand on her arm and works his way down her stomach and off camera. The background becomes clear and the wall of the man's chest defines itself with the darker indentations of chest muscles and a line of collar bone. You find yourself wondering how far down his hand has gone and what it's doing.
'How happy are you to be here?' she asks. 'Anton's dying to know.'
The arm moves up and back again and her eyes close briefly in pleasure or pain, you're not sure. As you're thinking what kind of answer to give that won’t sound like you think you're arriving for afternoon tea, the lift bumps to a stop and the panel goes red. You wait for a second, expecting the doors to open automatically but nothing happens. You forget about answering and start looking for a door open button.
There isn't one.
A surge of adrenalin hits your stomach. Whatever answer you could have come up with dies on your lips at the knowledge you're stuck in this small space. Your stomach lurches and you fight to calm the instinctive panic. Someone will call the lift from another floor eventually. Even so, you whip your head round to look for an escape panel or an emergency phone to alert the anonymous reception desk downstairs that you're stuck.
'Relax,' says Giselle, in her all-knowing tone. 'We've got you, haven't we Anton?'
Anton doesn't say anything, or nothing you can hear anyway. But his hand seems to be moving with purpose off-screen.
'You could at least wave or smile or say hello or something,' she mocks again. So they can see and not just hear you. But how?
And then a male voice adds, 'I'm waiting for the "or something".'
You raise your hand to push your hair off your clammy neck, uncertain what she wants you to say.
'Awww, nearly a wave,' says Giselle and your hand freezes in place.
You keep searching the ceiling and walls for a camera but see nothing. There aren’t even any air vents or anything where they could be hidden. You frown at Giselle's image as she arches her back, pushing her breasts out towards the camera she must be sitting in front of. Then you realise the panel itself is like a large iPad with a tiny camera above the screen. They're watching you watching them watch you.
'How much do you want to be in here with us?' Anton asks.
Much more than you want to be in here, that's for sure.
'I really-' you start.
'Show don't t-e-e-ell,' mocks Giselle.
Or...
Do it. Get invited up, have a threesome.
5
You don't hesitate. 'Yes.'
'My studio's upstairs.'
'That's handy,' you say.
He shrugs and leads you to the back of the bar. 'Who says artists can't be practical?'
He opens a door leading to a narrow staircase and ducks his head under the frame to disappear upwards. You follow, nerves tingling with anticipation as you imagine you're entering a fairytale tower.
The studio is small, mostly taken up by a red velvet cushion heap in the corner and a paint covered table, holding pots, palettes and brushes. An empty easel stands in front of the table but a camera on a tripod has been set up in front of the cushions.
'You do photography as well?'
'I work with both and merge them.' He's already rearranging the cushions, moving some up and others to the sides as he looks back at you as if measuring you for a fitting.
Of course! That explains the very real quality amongst the unreality of his work.
'Do you need the heating on?' he asks as you continue to stand there.
'Oh, right!' You're supposed to get undressed. He turns his back while he goes to the camera and fiddles with it, removing a lens and screwing in another. You hesitate, and wonder if you're being too reckless. You don't even know this guy. But the idea of being painted and immortalised the way the girls in paintings throughout the centuries