Blue was a fading shade of blues, all arrayed in moth-eaten gowns, her greening eyes filled with the void walls of her silent room. She possessed a slight propensity to quirky outfits, obsolete lacy bralettes, white silk hosiery, diamond barrettes, and a beautiful pair of delicate hands.
Was smoking Mariannes, was driving a cabriolet, owned a lake, and a room of her own.
There was a knock on the door.
She hesitatingly opened the door to Samuel and locked it back swiftly with the gross golden key.
“The chauffeur is waiting for you in the automobile,” said Samuel.
“Let me collect my things, and I will be downstairs right away.”
“The salon is all dressed in bulb lights.”
Samuel Steiner was exactly her match. She fancied him, S. was a well-educated bachelor, piloted military planes, had prospects, was aristocratic. She had fallen for him. He had been recently rumoured to date a Russian émigrée, very much to her dismay.
She packed up a tiny revolver and a bottle of laudanum in her sequin clutch. Vaporised then Schiaparelli’s Shocking behind her ear lobes and nervously discarded the unopened letter on her rosewood dressing table. Had a double shot of Indian gin. Applied rouge. Locked her room.
She erupted, silver screen allure, into the salon. Threw herself into S.’s arms, all her tentacles at work, like a climbing weed.
“Kiss me,” said she “and you will see how important I am.” Samuel stepped back.
“Your father asked me to promise I won’t let you do anything foolish. You’re all drunk.”
She just grasped her pistol and pointed it to his heart.
“Bloody hell! Kiss me, or else I pull the trigger.”
She closed her eyes and fired. The whole place was filled with sound and fury. She was in tremor.
She then stumbled on the doorsteps and twisted her ankle. She spent the rest of the evening and the incipient night hours quietly counting down the ticking movements of the clock. She eventually swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and the whole of the laudanum flacon and lied down on her canopy bed. Just lied down.