“I—yes—no—how—how?” she asks with a half-open mouth.
“Connections and money bring you far in life,” I say.
She scoffs derogatorily.
“You are of a different opinion,” I say and chuckle.
“I am,” she says. “Everyone is so obsessed with getting somewhere in life, being something better, showing off what they have and how great they are, and yet, they’re empty inside,” she says, and her tone gets angrier. “A shell performing for others, pushing themselves to new levels, always on the search for the next thrill, the next big thing, always more, but is that what life is for?”
My chest rumbles from her words. I spent my entire life around exactly those people; I’d call myself one of them, although I am very content with where I am. Yet, I always push for the ‘next big thing,’ as she calls it.
“I’d describe my life as rich and colourful,” I say. “There might be a middle ground.”
“Is there?” she asks, with a harsher voice. It is telling me the topic is emotionally loaded. It has been a while since someone has challenged my thoughts, and I quite enjoy it.
“What makes you believe there isn’t?”
She pulls her phone out of her pocket and reads to me. “Victoria Grace Fitzroy, born December 24th, 1966, owner of The £1 Million Club—a private club that reminds one of the old days with its country club flair, yet is something entirely new. Made for the elites, it requests a commitment: A yearly investment of £1 Million for delivering experiences beyond the senses and the soul in exclusive nights of frivolity and hedonism.”
It’s an article in a business magazine, one that brought in several clients—I know it by heart.
Mia continues.
“When asked about what drives her, Victoria says she does not believe in love, but the chemical reaction that the right circumstances can deliver. ‘I see myself as an alchemist of modern desire,’ she tells me with a knowing smile during our interview.” Mia glances at me. “Don’t you see? You are an entertainer, becoming something for those who give you their money. In other words, a role. A shell. A stage puppet.”
There is so much fierceness in her voice that I can tell there is anentirely different person in her than she lets on. She is playing a role herself.
“And what makes me different from the role you play?” I ask her and smile daringly. “You are hiding behind your shy wallflowerism like it is something valuable, the only right thing, and here you are, fierce, engaging, with values and opinions. If you’d only dared to show the real you.”
Her shoulders roll back, and her eyes harden dangerously.
“Stop the car,” she says, and when Henry doesn’t react, she shouts. “Stop the car right now!”
Henry looks at me through the rear mirror, and I nod, so he stops, and Mia jumps out. I lean over to the other side and get one last glance at her. She is tense and angry.
“You cannot run from yourself, Miss Phillips,” I say, and she slams the door shut, only to knock at Henry’s window. Henry lets it down.
“Thank you for driving me,” she says and then leaves.
Even in anger, she is too polite to just walk away—a deep chuckle escapes my throat.
Henry drives me back to my house. The entire time, my mind lingers with Mia and her words, and I cannot help but wonder what else she hides behind the mask she created.
In parts, she was right. My events are, to a certain degree, performances—the exterior is. But what happens with the participants cannot be grasped by anyone who hasn’t experienced it. It is about finding the true self and experiencing oneself.
And I cannot help but wonder what Mia Phillips' true self looks like. I am certain there is more, and I already know I will be unable to resist the desire to uncover it, so I call Hailie for the third time.
“Mia Phillips, I need to know everything you can find on her. Give me a full profile as we do for vetting members. Everything social, what she likes and dislikes, friends, family, connections, past relationships. Search History if you can get it.”
5
MIA
PLAYLIST: GOOD GIRLS (ACOUSTIC) – JOSIE EDWARDS
Iam absolutely seething inside. Something that doesn’t happen often, at least not since I left home to live on my own. Who does she think she is? My mother? I don’t even know her; she doesn’t know me. How dare she!
The only good thing to come of it is that my mind is working again. The anger is somehow washing out the fear and horrors of the night.
