I grunt in reply and open my mouth as wide as I can. Dr Rhodes pokes around my gumline methodically with a pointy-ended instrument, inserting it between my teeth. He does some further checks with another instrument. Finishing those, he presses around my jaw and rubs a gloved finger up under my gums, and my stomach muscles tense—he’s worryingly thorough.
His index finger brushes against my eye teeth, and I stiffen. My fangs only fully extend when summoned by bloodlust, and they don’t show on my X-rays so I should be OK. But the dentist feels the pointy tips and says, ‘These are a bit sharp. I could file them for you if it’s an issue?’
I shake my head and he doesn’t comment further. I relaxafter that, relieved that he hasn’t noticed anything too out of the ordinary about me.
‘Well, I’m happy to say your teeth are pristine, Florence,’ he remarks, sounding bemused. ‘You don’t have any fillings, and there isn’t even any tartar to scrape off. What’s your secret?’
He moves slightly and I get another whiff of the blood on his lapel.
‘I don’t eat sugar,’ I say tightly, my nostrils flaring.God, I’m going to suck that blood bag dry when I get home. Altruism be damned.
‘Do you floss regularly?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’ It’s true, I do because sometimes blood clots catch in my teeth. It’s one of the drawbacks of drinking under-the-table transfusions. But probably best not to mention that ...
‘What about TePe brushes?’
I shake my head.
Then ensues a rather long lecture about the benefits of using TePe dental brushes, and he thrusts several different-sized ones between my teeth. I’m given a couple of blue TePe brushes and a tiny tube of toothpaste in a small baggie. Woo-hoo, free dental merch. Bonus.
If my flatmates, Sadie and Hester, could hear this conversation, they’d laugh their heads off. Luckily, I’m outof range, so neither of them can. I know what Sadie would say too as she doesn’t have a filter: ‘You weirdo, why are you bothering when you don’t actually need to go to the dentist?’ Perhaps it is a bit strange; after all, I never have to worry about tooth decay even if I don’t brush. But is it so wrong to want to feel like I’m part of society every once in a while? And since Dr Malcolm’s replacement is a young (possibly handsome) dentist, at least I’m good in the sexual fantasy department for the next year. Men in masks have a certain je ne sais quoi, and I have a vivid imagination.
The chair is slowly uprighted to its original position, and Dr Rhodes tells me he’s finished. I sit there, unmoving, as a deep well of disappointment opens up inside me. So soon? Can we not chat some more about TePe brushes? Maybe I should say I’m thinking of becoming a dental hygienist, and does he have any career advice?
But I don’t want him to think I’m a lonely saddo.
‘Great, thank you,’ I say brightly, self-preservation overriding my need for human connection, as it always does.
Dr Rhodes switches off the light above my head and idly removes his surgical mask. I sit there for a moment as the sight of him sinks in. He’s ridiculously hot for a human; as well as those lovely greeny-hazel eyes, he has a straight nose and a strong jaw.
He smiles at me in a professional manner and his teeth are, of course, outstanding. A playful dimple appears in his left cheek and my stomach flips. It’s the cherry on top of a gorgeous man sundae. Peeling off his gloves with a snap, he drops them on the tray, and rolls back towards the computer in his chair. ‘You’re all good to go, Florence. See you next year. Just book an appointment at reception ...’
Dr Rhodes goes through his wrap-up spiel, yadda yadda yadda, but I hardly hear a word he’s saying because bloodlust is strumming through my veins. I want to see him again and I don’t want to have to wait until next year. Maybe a little vampiric encouragement is all he needs to ask me out?
Chapter 2
Florence | London, 1888
My dear deluded Aunt Ivy has arranged this ridiculous appointment for me. She believes I have hidden talents, so much so that she answered a gentleman’s advertisement for a governess on my behalf.
Now here I am, staring at a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head attached to a glossy black door. My knees tremble as I raise a hand to the ring protruding from the lion’s mouth, but I can’t quite bring myself to use it.
I’ve never been in Belgravia before, and the neighbourhood exudes a quiet stately swank. Number 19 South Eaton Place with its creamy white columns is no exception; even the immaculate black-marble stoop is too posh for the likes of me to be standing on it in my tattered boots.
When I found out what Aunt Ivy had done, I was astounded at her gumption. I despise the long hours of my poorly paid sewing work and wish to better myself, as Aunt Ivy well knows. However, I have no wish to make a fool ofmyself either.
‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing? I have no experience as a governess!’
Aunt Ivy was undeterred. ‘You can read and write, and you’ve always got your nose in a library book. You’re perfect for the position. The gentleman is a doctor, and his son is a young boy.Hewon’t care if you make a few fumbles. If he asks questions you can’t answer, just make something up. You’ve got a quick tongue in your head. But for the love of God, don’t say you’re from Spitalfields. Your story is that you’re an intelligent, respectable girl being brought up by your aunt, and we live in Kensington. Just remember that at your interview, and you’ll be fine.’
‘Where exactly is this position?’ I demanded.
‘Belgravia. He’s paying 100 pounds a year,andit’s live-in. The appointment is at ten o’clock tomorrow.’ She clapped her hands excitedly.
‘But ... but there will be other women applying who are much more qualified than me. I can’t compete—’
‘Nonsense, Floss! Of course you can. You have to have more confidence in yourself.’
