There’s a short stroll through a mirrored corridor before you get into Lando’s closet, which in itself is bigger than my flat’s living room. He’d once told me it had been a guest bedroom, but his father had let him repurpose it as a walk-in wardrobe in substitution for his lacklustre parenting. Cupboards line every wall, and in the centre is a pair of gilt-embroidered high-backed arm chairs, as well as a couple of naked mannequins.
I march straight over to the section of cupboard where he keepsthemand pull the doors wide. Lights automatically flicker on, just like a fridge, revealing the contents.
My breath simply vanishes from my throat. I don’t remember exhaling, but there is no oxygen left in my lungs, because Lando’s collection of stolen scents has easily quadrupled since the last time I checked. There must be hundreds of bottles of perfume and eau de toilette and cologne here, and he’s arranged them all according to brand.
It means dozens of lovers since me.
But why? He’s ace. I don’t get it.
Well, okay, I get it. I understand his reasons, but it’s just so . . . sad.
6
Saturday 1st May 2027
Lando
“It’s genius, is what it is,” Serasi says—keeps saying. Has only mentioned a few thousand times today.
Now that I’m faced with the prospect ofit, I’m struggling to agree with her. The smell alone is triggering my fight-or-flight response. It smells like an unidentifiable slab of raw meat and BO got together and made a baby.
“Is there any milk powder in it?” I ask, taking a few steps back so my McQueen SS24 organic silk shirt doesn’t get splashed.
And yes, that’s spring-summer ’24. I guess I’m officially an outfit repeater now. It’s only been a week since Daddy Dearest cut me off, but I haven’t been clothes shopping at all duringthat time.
Go me.
Granted, I’ve been holed up in a dusty, musty, crack den of an office building for the entire week, but I’m certain that if I weren’t now a slave to the machine, I could quit spending any time.
“Yeah, there’s no milk powder. I made sure the caterers knew about your delicate baby tummy,” Daisy says, grabbing a potato on a stick. Yep, a potato on a stick. “You’re safe.”
“Am I, though?” I scoff, eyeing the monstrosity before me.
Viscous brown chicken-flavoured liquid bubbles out the top of a spout and cascades over a four-tiered system of platforms before collecting in a pool at the bottom to be pumped straight back to the top again.
It’s gravy. The chicken-flavoured liquid is gravy, and the bubbling tiered system is a chocolate fountain.
There are roast potatoes on kebab sticks to dunk in a gravy fountain, and I am in my own personal hell.
“Oh my god,” Daisy whines with her mouth full of half-masticated tuber.
“See, what did I say?” Serasi says, one hand cradling Daisy’s Chloé-clad hip and the other brandishing no fewer than six roasties, each on its own individual skewer. “Genius.” She offers me a potato, but I decline.
“My stomach hurts enough already. I think there was dairy in my pudding,” I say, even though the waiters gave the vegans and me a fruit salad instead of cheesecake like everyone else.
Daisy’s shaking her head. She swallows her food. “Lan, you had grapes and fucking melons. Dad and Mathias made sure you had separate everything, and there was no cross contamination, I can promise you.”
She has a tone with me now, and I don’t know when I became self-aware enough to notice it, but I don’t like it. The tone and the self-awareness.
I haven’t had a moment alone with Daisy today. She got ready with Serasi in her little flat above the pub, and while I adore that place, there’s no way in hell a three-thousand-pound Chloé gown should be hanging out in that damp, cramped bedsit.
I miss our usual GRWM sessions. I had everything set up this morning: the music on standby, the snacks, the champagne. I’d prepped the mannequinsready for our outfits, cleaned the bathroom myself because it wasn’t Elaine’s day to come by, and laid out a selection of fragrances that would pair well with Daisy’s dress, the function vibes, and the general theme of love. I’d even chosen a scent for Serasi.
But at ten thirty, precisely half an hour after I’d assumed Daisy and her girlfriend would arrive, I received a text.
Quick question. Do I stick the tape to my tit, or do I stick it to the frock?
It had taken me a few moments to understand that this meant she was trying to get dressed herself, at her place.
