His beautiful face contorted like a reflection in a Hall of Mirrors, spitting his hateful words ‘old, talentless and so boringly predictable.’ He had told everyone I was his ‘Next Big Thing’, pushing me to constantly audition, until my deep bass-baritone voice was destroyed. I’d wanted to please him, to make him keep me, but the grand opera companies rejected me using kinder versions of his sneering words; so did he.
I noticed the new me, three months ago, having dinner with him at the chi-chi restaurant where I now waited tables. I watched them, both twinkly eyed, with the knowing, growing anticipation of what was to follow their fine dining experience. I could narcissistically see the new me, irresistible.
I leaned over him, offering the credit-card reader with two extra zeros added for ‘gratuities’. I inhaled deeply, allowing his scent to invade my soul once more. He did not register my presence. I shuffled expectantly, craving a drama that never came. It had not arrived during his previous visits either. So, my secretly purloined nest, was now incubating his 30,000 Swiss Franc eggs, all ready to hatch. Histrionics may come, but I will be long gone.
I’ve invested the eggs in Flashmobwaitersatyourservice.com, a fusion of the talents I allegedly have not possessed. Training other opera castoffs in the art of silver-service and how to pounce on unsuspecting, delighted diners, whilst making obscene amounts of cash. So, hello rainy London and adieu glorious Switzerland.
I’m lying on his opulent carpet again, cable-ties between my teeth, wriggling under the oak-bed he had seduced me on. One last parting gift. Violence? Never. Instead, take one freshly caught salmon, secure it neatly to the antique polished slats, and simply disappear with his spare key.