The London sky is just getting streaked with dark as Mary Louise flicks a switch on her desk which makes the six 40-inch screens on the wall of her office fade to tiny pinpricks of light. She is done for the day. In fact, she is done for the long Bank Holiday weekend. For the next three days, she can disregard the performance of cryptocurrencies, bonds, and mutual funds. For seventy-two hours she can shed, together with her Gormley & Gamble linen suit, the successful businesswoman persona and go back to being herself.
As of now, she can stop worrying about how the fluctuation of banana prices in Panama might affect Berry Farm Inc.’s stocks on Nasdaq. The falling prices of copper in distant Chile and Peru will have no bearing on what she is planning to do. Rare Earths extracted by Congolese kids, often as young as ten, will languish in hemp sacks until she returns to the office on Tuesday. Only then can they be converted into batteries for electric vehicles and smartphones and boost her clients’ already bulky portfolios. And for that matter, her own.
The thought of the long, leisurely weekend sends her heart into a canter. She is eager to leave her office on the 67th floor of the Shard, where sitting in a Verona ergonomic swivel chair, she contemplates the imposing, but sinister Tower of London framed by a huge picture window.
Since it was first built, the Tower has witnessed some pretty gruesome events – torture, forced confessions, and quite a few executions. But only a few had the privilege of having his or her head chopped off in the Tower. The honour was reserved for the celebrities of the day, the equivalent of today’s Hollywood stars, Grammy winners and TikTok influencers. The Renaissance superstars who got themselves slaughtered in the Tower were noble men and women and included three queens.
As benefited their station in life, the Tower prisoners’ executions were private, carried out far from the gaze of the common man, witnessed only by the rich and powerful who, oftentimes, ended up on the same scaffold a few years later.
“People were used to violence in those days,” Mary Louise thinks.
“It was no big deal and executions were considered entertainment, a show to break the monotony of their dreary lives. It must have been like watching Les Misérables in the West End. Only the gore was genuine, and the dead did not get up to bow at the end of the spectacle.”
Mary Louise knows that she does not fit into the woke and whiny contemporary world. She should have been born in the Middle Ages or perhaps even further back, in ancient Rome, when people were brave and embraced strong emotions. But nothing can be done about it. A caprice of fate has put her in the gutless ‘here and now’ and that’s where she must remain, trying to make the best of it.
Before leaving, she turns on her iPhone which she switched off in the morning to check if her date, a handsome pilot called Jordan, has confirmed their meeting.
“8.30 p.m., as agreed. At yours,” the WhatsApp message blinks at her.
“Wear as little as possible. Hopefully, just your bracelet.”
Mary Louise glances at her slim wrist. It is surrounded by a delicate chain with five tiny charms: a guitar, a paintbrush, an oval that says: ‘firefighter at heart’, Themis, the goddess of justice holding a pair of scales, and a caduceus with two snakes winding around a winged staff. A gift from herself to herself, twenty-four karat gold, handcrafted to her exact specifications by Vashi, a top London jeweller.
She flicks one more switch and the whole office winks then goes completely dark. The picture window reveals a night-time cityscape – an impressionist but sombre painting of steel, concrete, and a constellation of neon lights.
Outside, the taxi is waiting. As she gets in, her bracelet jingles a quiet, reassuring tune accompanying the barely audible murmur of the TX4’s engine.
“Chester Square,” she tells the driver.
Her apartment is in one of the poshest and most expensive areas of London, and although it is small, with just one bedroom and one bathroom, it cost more than half a million pounds a few years back.
If she wished, she could well afford something much better on her stratospheric City salary, but she likes this leafy and quiet suburb where after seven p.m. she is no longer Miss Stock Exchange but Mary Louise, the demure thirty-something woman with quiet hobbies.
Since she was twenty-five, she has worked her ass off, hardly going out for a drink, not to mention dating. It was only last year that she finally decided it was time to ‘glow up’ as her sister, Viv, who is ten years younger called it.
So she joined Tinder. Safe, Secure Dating for Mature Singles. Build Connections & Find Love. Fifty-five billion matches to date. Find yours.
And that’s what she’s been doing ever since – trying to find her match. One that would send her levels of oxytocin sky high and make her palms sweat, her thighs quiver with desire and her face flush. So far, without any luck.
At first, she was not sure how the application worked but she soon figured it out. Tinder was an ocean full of fish and she, Mary Louise, had a net, the swipe function, to snare the fish she fancied. Like to the right, dislike to the left. Swipe, swipe, swipe, stop, watch. Repeat.
To learn more about an individual, she could tap on his profile photo and slide through their carousel for more pictures. If she liked what she saw, she would tap the heart button or hit the X to reject.
“Just like the Roman Emperor, Caligula, deciding on a Gladiator’s fate – life or death,” she thought at the time.
“Doctor, frequent traveller. Yoga fan. More brains than looks. Want in? Message me.”
The doctor was in his late thirties. Indeed, not much of a looker but in great shape. The yoga part was true, then. His dark eyes looked pensive and kind. He was the kind of man any woman would love to raise her children with. She wanted ‘in’.
“A geek (British Sheldon), I like everything from board games, comics, books, and movies to technology, science. Corporate lawyer – boring stuff. I’d rather talk about YOU. Call me.”
For a geek, he was a handsome dude. Dark blonde hair, a thinker’s furrowed forehead, blue or green eyes – she could not tell. She thought she would love him to talk to her about her. Heart.
“I could spend my whole life discussing the Harry Potter saga. Want to be my Hermione? I can show you some magic tricks. Levitemus.”
She shuddered as she clicked on the X. The guy in the photo was not too bad but the idea of a Harry Potter fan, naked apart from a long, striped scarf sitting, or even worse, levitating, on her bed, made her cringe.
“Pilot by day… magic carpet driver by night. Let me take you to cloud nine and beyond. I will whisk you away from the unbearable lightness of being. Yes, I read Milan Kundera.”
And here he is now, waiting outside her house, the exact replica of the good-looking, pale-faced guy whose photos she’s seen dozens of times. He is tall, much taller than she imagined. Elaborately casual in light blue jeans, a white polo neck and a leather bomber jacket – a pilot to boot. He is holding something in his hand. She hopes it’s not flowers. Too corny for a first date. No, it’s not flowers. It looks more like a bottle. Hopefully, he has the same taste in spirits as he has in clothes.
Before the date, they exchanged messaged for a couple of weeks, each one growing in intimacy. By week four, they swapped sexy photos in distinct stages of undress. In one of them Mary Louise is wearing just a black lacy underwear and the gold bracelet on her right wrist.
Because her motto is ‘Make it quick, make it happen.’
The last thing she wants is to waste time. She has never been shy and expressing her wishes, both intellectual and sexual, comes easy. She is not a woman who will flinch at telling her partner how far to go, where and how deep. She is a female shark, both professionally and in her personal life. She knows how to get what she wants and how to ask for it. Or … demand?
And when she is ready, be it an especially complex merger or in the privacy of the bedroom, she goes directly for the kill. That’s what gives her pleasure, sends ripples of excitement down her spine, pumps adrenaline through her body, makes her wet between her legs.
“Mary Louise?” the man has already crossed the road and is approaching the taxi. He is holding the car door for her now. She winces – a bit cursi. But instead of being critical, she flashes him a warm smile.
“Jordan. Great you could make it,” she says politely letting him help her out and hold her hand in his for a moment. She worries he might drop the bottle, but he seems to have it under control.
“We’d better get in. I see you’ve brought something to drink. I have everything else ready,” she says and breathes out a secret promise.
He follows her up the eight steps to the house. The door is huge, original oak, stained glass at the top, a brass letter slot, and a knocker in the form of an open-mouthed wolf. She turns the key in the keyhole letting them into a parquet-covered hall. Her flat is on the left. She opens another door. Jordan steps in, looks around, and whistles with appreciation.
“Cool,” he says, and she laughs because it is such a millennial thing to say and he must be at least forty-five, if not older.
“You approve?”
“Couldn’t have decorated it better myself,” he replies.
Mary Louise shrugs out of her five-hundred-pound Gormley & Gamble jacket and throws it carelessly on the sofa. The charms on the bracelet jingle to the rhythm of her movements.
“Make yourself at home,” she motions him to the living-dining room area.
As he watches her walk to the kitchen, she can feel his gaze rest on the fabric of her skirt where it hugs her buttocks. Aware of his mounting excitement, she swings her hips in long liquid moves, as if she were Naomi Cambell strutting along the Berlin Fashion Week catwalk.
She can hear rather than see him fidget for a while then sit down on the sofa, next to her discarded jacket.
“Just give me a minute,” she calls from the kitchen and opens the fridge to take out a tray wrapped in plastic film she prepared in the morning. There is a wedge of gruyere, a circle of camembert, a lump of orange cheddar, a smaller one of Jersey blue and just a tiny bit of Extra Old Bitto (a hundred quid per pound) – all surrounded by a wreath of black and green olives interspersed with pieces of red and green pepper triangles. She opens a drawer and takes out a wire cheese cutter with solid wooden handles, a box of toothpicks and paper napkins with the design of toy planes and helicopters.
In the meantime, Jordan has, indeed, made himself at home. He has taken off his leather jacket, his polo neck and even his shoes. In fact, he is wearing only his socks and boxer shorts with red and blue stripes, the Ralph Lauren name around the waistband.
“You take things quite literally,” she says betraying no emotion.
He is hesitant now, scrambles for his jeans and tries to cover himself up. She can hear his mind tick with alarm: Have I misinterpreted her? Will she chuck me out? Is that how the night is going to end?
She places the tray on the glass top of the coffee table then snatches the jeans from his hands.
“No rush,” she says noticing the expensive Alexander Wang brand on the label.
Jordan relaxes again and leans against the backrest of the sofa. A few beads of sweat stand out on his forehead and pearl his upper lip despite the fact he is nearly naked.
“I thought…” he half-stammers.
“You thought right,” she reassures him and runs a fingernail across his hairless chest making him shiver.
“I’m thinking the same.”
He is calm now.
“Music? And then something to drink,” she says.
She picks up the remote control and releases a cacophony of guitar accords from the other side of the room, where the Sony equipment flickers to life.
Jordan glances up at her with disbelief.
“Not exactly romantic,” he says.
“What did you expect? Michael Bublé? “The Way you Look Tonight”? I’m not that kind of girl. I like strong emotions and meaningful music.”
“Who’s the singer, anyway?”
“Neko Case.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Not everyone’s cup of tea,” she shrugs.
“Why don’t you just shut up and listen?”
She raises the volume a notch.
It always has to come to this
Red bells ring this tragic hour
We’ve lost sight of the overpass
She can tell he is uneasy again, more than before, and he reaches for his jeans again.
“What’s the matter?” she teases him, her voice sweet and thick as molasses.
“You don’t like my taste in music? That’s why you are running away?”
She has touched a nerve. He abandons the search and sighs.
“It’s just … I thought…I thought we’d have a drink or two, cuddle a little and …”
“And?” she flicks the tip of her tongue at him.
“And you know. You were not particularly shy in the photos you sent.”
She approaches the table and points to the tray.
“Why don’t you have something to eat while I open the wine you’ve brought.”
“Champagne. Veuve Clicquot Brut,” he corrects.
“Champagne, then.”
She picks up the cheese cutter, slices off a thin piece of cheddar and motions to him to open his mouth.
“There. Say cheese. Then we can have some fun. I’m sorry you don’t like the song.”
Her face is nearly touching his. His eyes look like black holes. He blinks, then looks away. As he chews, she moves towards the back of the sofa and runs a fingernail along his shoulder blades. A tremor contracts his muscles, making them stand out against his tanned skin. She traces the outline of one extra tense knot, massages it with her forefinger. He is fully relaxed now. He has swallowed the cheese and seems to be getting ready for what is to come.
The song is ending when she loops the cheese cutter around his neck and pulls hard.
“Past empty lots and early graves
Those like you who lost their way
Murdered on the interstate.”
She has a strong grip on the wooden handles and the tight fit of the wire gives him no chance to put his hands up and yank it off. She keeps pulling harder and harder while he is thrashing on the sofa, lifting his feet from the floor trying to free himself, clearly not wanting to die, to walk to the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. His breathing is harsh, like the vomiting of a sick dog struggling to empty its stomach. Saliva is oozing from his lips; his face turns blue.
She keeps squeezing, the gold bracelet on her wrist jingles softly as the charms knock against each other.
She looks down at his underwear. He has peed himself. The nice and clean Ralf Lauren shorts are dirty and smell of acrid urine and frantic fear. But it’s nothing new. That’s how they all react. Even the doctor who was a yoga fan and should have had better control of his body functions soiled the sofa. She had to get professional cleaners in and explain it was her 3-year-old nephew who couldn’t control his bowels. They tut-tutted with comprehension and used steam-powered machines to clean up the mess.
Just like Jordan, all the other Tinder dates were taken by surprise. None of them expected anything but amazing sex and an interesting conversation thrown in for good measure. Well, maybe once. The firefighter. She can’t remember his name now, but it doesn’t matter, because she always remembers them by their professions.
Something like a sixth sense made him sit in the armchair next to the window while the curtains were not drawn. She was worried neighbours might see but her desire to reach this incredible sex-free climax was so strong that she threw caution to the wind. In the end, it was a big disappointment as the muscular man blacked out in less than a minute like a wet candlewick.
She wonders what it would have been like if she had right swiped the Harry Potter freak. Could she have used the striped scarf instead of the cheese cutter? Would it have felt as exhilarating as it feels now?
The man on the sofa is still. She has squeezed hard enough to knock him out, but not hard enough to break the skin and veins and muck up her apartment like she did the first time. Blood jetted out with such force that it soiled the carpet and the curtains at the other side of the room. She had to get them replaced at a great cost. She finally got it exactly right after the guitarist – her third try. The appropriate amount of pressure, then a twist or two of the cheese cutter handles was all that was needed to cut off the air supply to their lungs.
She knows she must get the iron cord to finish the job. But before she does, she goes to her bedroom and takes a little black velvet box. Inside, there is a selection of tiny objects. She pushes aside a pair of diminutive handcuffs, a theatre mask, a chef’s hat, a book, and a few other charms until she finds the one that she wants: a gold plane with outstretched wings.
Her iPhone pings and she walks to the living room to check the message. She is pleased. The price of bananas in Panama has just gone up by seven cents per kilo. It will make her client just over half a million pounds on this deal. And will get her a fiver per cent commission.
As she flexes the cord in her palms, she spots just the slightest movement on the sofa. A twitch, probably involuntary. An automatic response of dying nerve cells but she cannot take any more risks. She has already left it for too long.
The thought of his impending death consumes her. She is impatient to finish the job and then hang the sparkling plane with the rest of the charms. She smiles. There is no regret. Only happiness about her growing collection.
[Image Credit : Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash ]
by 
JB Polk
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