I want to live here.
It’s not huge, but it feels grand.
There’s a round dance floor in the middle and plush booths all the way around. I’ve heard booking a table here costs north of £3,000, but surely that can’t be right. That’s insane. Although if I had money to waste, I’d probably choose this place to do so.
The bar on the far side is covered in roses and fairy lights, and there’s an enormous metal-looking rosebud on top.
Vic moves us through a rounded doorway to the adjoining room, and it’s another feast for the eyes. It’s a dark-green painted room with carpet that looks like grass, large green leather booths and cafe-style tables, and a bar beneath a canopy of wisteria vines.
“Wow,” I say. It’s stunning.
The woman painted as the Cheshire Cat knocks my arm and points up.
“Are those?—”
“People,” she whispers.
Actual humans in winged suits with fairy lights are whooshing around overhead like human-sized fireflies against a sparkling ceiling. Holy fuck. How do they even come up with these things?
“As you can see, our aerial dancers are already in place, and so should you be—the first guests will arrive shortly. Have fun!” Vic says, and we all cheer before we spread out to our designated areas.
My job starts out at the entrance; serving the first arrivals a Lotus and Damiana sparkler (some purple drink, with golden flakes, of course), and showing them through the light tunnel. Then I join them in the Pink Room, with the goal of creating the atmosphere Mr Aurellan is looking for. No one wants to arrive at an empty club, so the other models and I fill it up and make sure it’s buzzing.
This is my favourite part of the job.
I people-watch as I navigate through the tables, and I make up stories to myself about who everyone is. I get to mingle and encourage guests to drink and dance.
Tonight, it’s extra intriguing, because although I might know who some of these people are, there’s no way to recognise them. Everyone’s anonymous.
Hidden identities.
I’m sure many will take advantage of that. This event is a recipe for debauchery.
As if on cue, a large hand clasps firmly onto my arse cheek under my short dress. A raspy voice sounds from right behind my ear, although I can’t make out the words. The hand squeezes my bottom.
I don’t engage. Instead, I tap my shoulder with two fingers and before I can count to three, there’s a massivesecurity guard (intimidating, despite the floral shirt), who gestures to whoever is behind me to stop what he’s doing.
The unwanted hand withdraws, and I keep walking, glancing back to see the guard speaking into the ear of the shiny green superhero who’d groped me.
I’ve never felt unsafe in this role. Even when I was near-naked in gold paint, swanning around at a James Bond-styled party with my tits on display among drunk men in tuxedos. Kirsten keeps her people safe, so I can simply enjoy being in a costume and do my job.
Time must be warped in this stunning place, because I receive the sign from the coordinator that my shift is up before I’m ready.
I exchange the Louboutins for my trusted sequin Converse shoes (four hours on sky-high heels is more than enough) and head back out to the Pink Room. The dance floor has been filling up as the VVIPs get deeper into the champagne fountain. The models can take some credit too, I know.
“Cheers!” I hear right beside me, and turn to find the purple Cheshire Cat from earlier. She passes me a glass of champagne and clinks hers against mine.
“Cheers,” I respond with a grin. I’m not a big drinker, but I’m thirsty, so I down it—and that isgood.
I get a refill from a wandering lily, who seems to think I’m one of the VIPs from the way she practically bows for me.
Alright, I’ll play along.
Tonight, I’m Alice. Alice could be a VVIP, right? There are a couple of other Alices around who I don’t think are from the model cohort.
I could pretend to be a runway model instead of anatmosphere model. Well, maybe not with my soft hourglass shape, but I’mhere. At The Orion.
People can think whatever. It doesn’t matter.
