"Sciorelli, mon cher! How are you? You are looking well, as always." Sciorelli's patroness reaches out her hand for his thin lips to touch. He wraps his delicate fingers around her own, and Lady Tamara doesn't even feel the shudder of revulsion that slips down him as he obliges her.

"And you, Lady Tamara. How time eludes your lovely face. If only my ex-wife had aged so well."

"The first, second or third? Oh, you have a way with words. And how have you been keeping? Are the rumors true? Is Natasha your new muse? Or are you keeping your latest affair a secret?"

"I have no secrets from you, Lady Tamara. My life is an open book."

"Yes, a picture book, few words. But you expose yourself, if you'll forgive the pun."

Sciorelli doesn't acknowledge her, but picks up his menu.

She continues, "Don't you miss the romance? One cannot live without it. How do you think it keeps me looking so well, even in my seventies?"

"I thought it was the annual walks along Harley Street?"

"Oh, cheeky boy! That's what I love about you, your sensational wit. Your powers of observation are uncanny. Do you like what he's done this time? He is fantastic. No Wildenstein nightmares from him."

"He is truly an artist, Lady Tamara. Are you ordering fish? It is Friday."

Sciorelli and Lady Tamara's food arrives, and leaves, barely touched.

"Tell me, Lady Tamara, do you ever have an image in your head that won't leave. Only I had the most fantastical experience recently. I was passing the New Street Gallery. There is a sculptress in residence currently, in the enclave in the interior gardens, Delfine Negra? You've heard of her?"

"Ah, yes, mon cher. Certainly a coincidence: she grew up in the same village as Alvar and my mother, but was attracted to shadows and moved north. She may have been a muse of Geiger's, until his wife found out."

Lady Tamara pauses a moment. "Her work draws you in, takes from you. Smitten? Could our sweet Sciorelli have found his match?"

Sciorelli hides his smile, and gulps his Absinthe. He gestures to the waiter for another round. "It is more than that, Lady Tamara. I had... I don't know how to say this without sounding inane, like one of those left-coasters."

"Everyone's using those Americanisms now, aren't they? We're practically a fifty-first state to your homeland. Careful, dear Sciorelli. I spend a good amount of time in California myself now."

"Bridge building?"

"Well, Dr Self did say he would not perform any more feats of magic, and I must stay in touch, as you say, with the good many folks who pay for your new Thameside loft studio."

"So have you found anyone in California, to perform magic?"

"Yes. He's forty-five. And divorced. He has seen your photos and the paintings in my parlour. Do remember, child, that a good many of your patrons are from your 'left-coast.' But I've interrupted you, do continue."

"It was almost mystical. I felt we had met before, like we'd made a connection. I'm commissioning a sculpture from her, for the swimming pool in Chur."

"A past life?"

"I don't believe in that nonsense."

"But you believe what you felt?"

Sciorelli's dark eyes watch a young gamine pass by the table. A lithe creature with cropped pale hair, and long, concave arms. Her size two trousers hang about her hips, exposing a navel ring.

"And already he's found another?"

"She's too..."

"Always too!" Lady Tamara laughs, places a cigarette in her ivory holder, and lights the tip. She exhales directly in the path of Sciorelli's gaze.

The waiter picks up the half-eaten apple and goat's Brie platter from the edge of Lady Tamara's side of the table, and the untouched crystal dish of almond gelato in front of Sciorelli.

Lady Tamara baits, "Besides, romance is a myth created in the Middle Ages as a code of conduct for the Chevaliers to live by. It is interesting to note that with the invention of romance came the end of the matriarchal society and the true tracing of lineage."

"You have a marvelous sense of irony, Lady Tamara." He watches her swallow the complement and then continues. "Women took the matriarchal society underground and continued to decide which genes would be passed on or not." Sciorelli knew the game. He had played it many a time.

"Yes, so true, my dear boy. The true start of the feminist movement. Not the bra-burners of the sixties; all that gave women was prematurely sagging breasts, and plastic surgeons more work to do."

Sciorelli's eyes light up. It is so easy. "It did nothing for Muslim women subjected to mutilation, or Hindi women subjected to immolation for lack of dowry. I wonder if the word romance exists in Farsi or Sanskrit?"

"Oh, you are so clever, Sciorelli. Will you join me in a Sandeman's?"

But always leave them wanting more. "I must be going. I have an appointment with Miss Delfine at four, and it is twenty to the hour." And with that he rose.

"Then I shall have two, and dream of the next time we meet, mon cher. Au revoir. 'Til next time."

"'Til next time."

"Oh, and Sciorelli?"

He turned back to face her. "Yes, Lady Tamara?"

"Please give my regards to the Marquise de Negra."

Sciorelli tilts his head, and nods slightly, smiling.

"Unfold your arms. There. You are like a Greek god. Perfection." The Marquise stares at the shirtless Sciorelli, at the shadows cast on his rippled abdomen.

"I don't have much time. Shouldn't you work in better light?"

"It will take no time at all. I don't need the light to work."

Sciorelli watches as the Marquise turns to grab another camera. She stands almost as tall as he, her pale face framed with long black hair. Her eyes are indistinguishable, and her breasts quite small, almost boyish looking. Too small. Still.

She turns to face him. He opens his mouth, and the camera flashes, catching him off guard.

"Do you want me to take my trousers off?"

"No. Don't worry, I'm always generous." The Marquise stretches around him, three hundred and sixty degrees, swift and flashing. Pop, pop, pop.

"For proportion?" Sciorelli swivells around, and attempts to follow her with his gaze, his torso twists and contorts, and traps the light on his body.

"Perfect. Your trapezius. Outstanding."

"I was going to say--"

"Sshh, I'm almost done."

The Marquise stops for a moment, stares at him.

"Will you need me to come back? To pose? I won't be available for a few weeks--"

"No matter. I don't need you here. I only work from photos. It disturbs me to have someone else in the room. I'd much rather catch the image from memory, to create it from memory. I only use the photos for details."

"Can I shoot you?" Sciorelli asks. "Perhaps in exchange for the sculpture?"

"We can discuss that after I have done. Tell me your fantasies, Sciorelli. What turns you on?"

She keeps shooting.

This is more like it, he thinks. I might be in here.

"Do you like to see women together?" she whispers, and waits for his face to change. To show.

"Of course. Why? Do you have a friend? I could probably slide you into my diary on Wednesday. Unless of course she lives nearby. We could take care of things tonight."

"Why only two women, Sciorelli? Why not a room full of women?"

"Okay. A room full of women. That's good; I like that idea." A hint of a smile shifts his face.

The Marquise stops shooting. "Don't do that. Don't smile. It makes you ugly."

She turns away from him. Dirty bitch, thinks Sciorelli. I'll show her who's ugly.

But before he can speak she says, her back still turned to him, "We're done. I have all I need. I will have it delivered to Chur."

"What about payment?"

"You can settle when it arrives."

His mind spins. "Can I watch you, watch it, in progress, I mean? I could do a shoot around the piece?"

"No! Absolutely not. Here is my card." She drops it on the table, back still turned to him. "Have your manager send me the details of the address. We'll take care of the logistics." Her voice echoes away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He grabs the card, and watches the thin, dark figure vanish into the corridor.

Crass bitch, no manners. She didn't even say goodbye.

Sciorelli saw them, in the beer garden of the Mephisto. Havana nestled between the aging actor and his producer friend. Not much older than Sciorelli, he thought, but they'd let themselves go.

The VIP lounge was full, and Havana was out there with them and couldn't, apparently, decide. The actor's hand was down her trousers, whilst the producer was feeling her breasts.

Sciorelli pulled the vial out of his pocket, and lifted the lid, shoving the silver spoon up his nose and sniffing discretely. He pocketed the vial, and downed his Absinthe, ordering another.

Havana was perfect looking, but so was everyone else. Sciorelli always liked to examine the merchandise, in public, before the actual shoot, to observe the models unawares. Control.

Havana is late for the shoot. They're always late, especially the more they cost, he thinks. Late and haggard looking. The younger, the more haggard. At least the older ones, the ones in their twenties, attempt to cover up the previous night, but the makeup is always done all wrong for the lighting, and the truth is revealed when it is removed, like scraping away a Michaelangelo and having the misfortune to find a twelfth century fresco.

She comes in, finally. Incredible looking. Fresh-faced despite the night. Almost six feet tall, not more than one-fifteen, one-twenty, green eyes, short dark hair, and a mole just over her left eyebrow. A mole.

The shoot finishes, and when Havana bends down to suck Sciorelli off he says he will try to guarantee her the cover. He always says this. She swallows and wipes her mouth, smearing ten dollars of Christian Dior across her face. He could forgive this act of vulgarity, this waste, if not for the mole. It must be removed.

"Can I really have the cover, Benedicto? Only Saffron at the agency said, if I was real good?"

She is babbling, he thought. She sounds like a child. She isn't going to get my cover, not this less than perfection.

Sciorelli returns, bronzed and lean, from Penang. He enters his house in Chur through the kitchen. There is a note on the counter: Dear Sciorelli, it reads. I have thought long and hard about our encounter, about you. And I have decided: I do not want your money. Gratis. It is signed D. Negra.

Sciorelli puts his things down and grabs the bottle of Absinthe. This moment must be savored he thinks. He pulls the vial from his jacket and rails a few lines. A few more shots of Absinthe, a little Ottmar Leibert in the background.

His heart pounds, too much. Always too. He feels it, the twinge in his heart. Too. He sees the sculpture immersed in the pool, it is beautiful, an exact likeness of him. He begins to slip down, he clutches his heart, the glass smashes to the floor. The statue. Generous. Yes. Perfection. Almost. There are two of him, and the one on top has his cock plunged deep into the second Sciorelli's marble ass.

^