Carrie, an accountant for a large appliance retailer, went to a bash held by their newly appointed advertising agency. There she met Simon, a photographer, who was utterly different to the men she knew, professionally and socially. He was unshaved, unruly and unbelievably sexy. There were vodka shots provided – a first for her normally stuffy employer – and she’d had a couple too many, on purpose. Simon had cocaine in his pocket and eyes that smouldered under a tangled mop of thick black hair. They’d ended up having sex in the toilets – it was a night of firsts for Carrie – his hand covering her mouth as she came, her boss in the cubicle next door.
That was a fortnight ago. She’d hoped he’d call and the previous night, he did. He explained that he was having a dinner party and apologised for the lateness of the invitation. He wanted her to bring her best-looking blonde friend. Apparently, he had a buddy going through a divorce who needed to know that there were other fish in the sea. And he liked blonde fish.
Simon flung open the door. ‘You look good enough to eat,’ he said, running his eyes down the sheath she’d sprayed on. ‘Come in and have a line, babydoll.’ She tasted the cocaine on his tongue as he kissed her. A shudder of excitement passed through her – the memory of their last meeting. He gestured towards a ceramic tile lying on a nearby side table. She touched it. The tile had been heated to keep the small pyramid of white powder heaped on it dry. A generous line had already been separated from this mother lode, and a straw was provided. ‘Now, that’s what I call a welcome,’ she said to herself, picking up the straw. She held her hair back and hoovered the line into a nostril. It tickled the back of her throat and her gums instantly went numb, a shudder running over her scalp, down her spine and into her legs. Simon handed her a flute of champagne, and went back to the kitchen. ‘Make yourself at home, babydoll. Just got a few final things to do in the kitchen. Although, God knows, the last thing we’ll feel like doing is eating,’ he said with a laugh.
Carrie took the opportunity to look around. Simon lived well. His home consisted of two large terraces with the adjoining wall knocked out. It was all open plan: big spaces, high ceilings, pools of halogen lighting. Down one end was a syc, photographer-speak for a big concave egg, surrounded by expensive camera gear – the work space. Up the other end was a chef’s kitchen, all stainless steel and European brand names. A Bang & Olufsen sound system, as much modern sculpture as hi-fi, stood beside a long, low, L-shaped leather couch and a low Balinese coffee table carved with Hindu motifs, design, photographic and fashion magazines scattered artfully about. She looked for the bedroom, a tingling sensation between her legs. Was it the drug or the memory of the party…? She found it at the top of a set of stairs artfully built into a wall; the individual steps had no railing and seemed to hang unsupported in the air.
The bedroom overlooked the studio. On the walls were black and white portraits of beautiful women and various, perfectly proportioned nudes in erotic poses. ‘Your trophy room?’ she called out.
‘I don’t see your photo up there yet,’ he said quietly, holding her from behind, slipping his hand inside the front of her dress and cupping her breast.
His presence surprised her as she hadn’t heard his footsteps. ‘Does that mean I haven’t acquired “trophy” status yet?’ she said, moving away from him, but wanting instead to turn around, unzip his fly and take him in her mouth – if only to prove that she could be every bit as bad and unpredictable as him.
‘We’ll see. We’re going to have a night you and your girlfriend won’t forget. When’s she coming, by the way? And what’s her name? Is she hot?’
‘Questions, questions. When’s your friend coming? Is he hot?’ she countered.
‘Oh, got a call just before you arrived. Problems with the ex. He can’t make it, so…it’ll just be the three of us.’ She looked down and saw that an old shearer’s table, the one old piece in the room, had been set for three.
Carrie wanted to believe him, but it felt too set up. Just the three of us… And then the doorbell rang.
‘Her name’s Anna,’ said Carrie, calling after him as he ran to answer it.
Simon took the steps two at a time and reached the front door, picking up a flute of champagne from the kitchen on the way, before the bell rang again. ‘Ah, you must be Anna,’ he said as she walked in, exchanging her coat for the glass. ‘Carrie’s here. Now we can par-tay.’
Carrie noted that Anna was wearing her prowling attire: a sheer, backless dress – very short – high-heeled shoes and a long leather coat. ‘Ooh,’ said Anna with a giggle as she stepped lightly into the room, her heels clattering on the parquet floor. ‘Nice place.’
Carrie could see from Simon’s body language that he was also impressed by what he saw. ‘I’m told it’s a bit sterile,’ he said in an attempt to be dismissive.
‘I like it,’ said Anna looking around.
‘Hello, girlfriend,’ Carrie said. She gave her friend a hug and a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re late.’Anna was always late.
Simon’s mobile rang. ‘Alright, that must be the courier,’ he said, rubbing his hands together before opening the text message. ‘Yeah, waiting out front.’ Carrie glanced at Anna with the slightest wrinkle between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Courier? Simon grabbed a wad of cash off the kitchen bench and placed his hand on Carrie’s arse as he kissed her. ‘Back in a second, babydoll,’ he said in her ear. ‘Keep it warm. Give Anna a line.’ The door closed behind him, leaving Carrie and Anna on their own.
‘He’s cute,’ said Anna, putting down her empty flute.
‘He’s mine,’ said Carrie, half jokingly, narrowing her eyes.
‘Did I hear the word “line” mentioned?’ Anna said, ignoring the warning.
‘There’s something for you on the tile over there.’ Carrie pointed at the side table. ‘Simon’s friend pulled out. Looks like it’s just the three of us.’
Anna picked up the straw and snorted the line in one fluid, practised movement. She dipped a finger in the mound of white powder and then ran it around her gums. She shivered. ‘Good quality. Oh well, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.’ The Bang & Olufsen changed CDs automatically, swapping blues for Nina Simone as Anna took herself on a tour of the surroundings. Carrie sat on the couch with a fresh glass of champagne, closed her eyes and thought of sex with Simon.
Moments later, a key sounded in the lock and Simon swaggered through the front door holding a little bag of blue-white powder high, in triumph. ‘Don’t crowd me, ladies,’ he said. ‘There’s enough for all.’
‘Do you do portraits, Simon?’ Anna called out from the bedroom, admiring the work on the walls.
‘No. The pay’s ratshit. Do pack shots mainly, for ad agencies.’ He reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out a plastic container. ‘Carrie,’ he said, beckoning her over with a finger. ‘Check this out.’
Carrie got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen. The bag Simon had collected now sat on the bench. It contained a fine, brilliant white powder. Not coke. It was something else. Simon opened the container. Inside was a plastic bag full of new disposable hypodermic syringes, a small bottle of saline solution, a professional tourniquet and sterilising swabs. The complete kit. ‘Have you ever done scag, babydoll?’ he asked.
Carrie shook her head. ‘Heroin? No way. Never,’ she said emphatically.
‘I have,’ said Anna, breezing into the kitchen. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘You bitch. You never told me that,’ said Carrie, surprised.
‘Look, Carrie, all the negative hype about heroin? It’s just bullshit put out to scare people,’ Simon said, tapping a measure of powder into a stainless-steel eggcup and adding saline to it.
‘It is amazing,’ said Anna, repeating herself. ‘And I knew you’d disapprove. That’s why I never told you.’
‘This stuff is first class,’ pronounced Simon. ‘You believe only half of what the dealers tell you, of course – there’s always some sales pitch or other. But this vitamin H looks like the real McCoy,’ he said, heating the underside of the eggcup with a lighter flame to cook the solution. ‘You want to go first, Anna?’ said Simon, sucking the fluid into a thin syringe.
‘Sure,’ she said, holding out her arm. Simon put the syringe between his teeth while he wrapped the tourniquet around her arm just above the elbow joint, and tightened it. He found a vein in the crook of her arm, tapped it, then wiped it with a swab. The injection was administered an instant later while Anna turned away. ‘Hey, you’re good, honey,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even feel that.’
‘Your turn, babydoll,’ said Simon, preparing the next hit with a clean hypodermic.
Carrie shook her head. ‘No way, Jose,’ she said, not altogether convincingly. ‘You okay, Anna?’ she asked. Her friend had sagged against the kitchen bench.
‘Oh, man,’ Anna said, eyes closed, head back, ‘it’s like I’ve been cold and someone has wrapped a warm blanket around me, but all on the inside. Do yourself a favour…’
Carrie didn’t want to, but at the same time she did. The internal battle being fought was between her conservative upbringing and a little girl’s fear of needles, and her desire to ‘fit in’ with Simon. He had cornered her and attacked her weakest link – her desire to be accepted, loved. That, and Carrie wanted sex with him, badly. ‘Okay,’ she said, turning her head away and holding out an arm. ‘Do it to me, baby, uh-huh, uh-huh.’
‘You can bet on that,’ he said.
Carrie felt the pressure of the tourniquet and the swab, followed by the lightest pinprick. And then the drug followed, flowing through her system, sweeping away her cares and inhibitions like debris on a flood tide. She opened her eyes after what seemed only a minute. Anna and Simon were naked. Anna was now lying back on the kitchen bench, legs up in the air as Simon fucked her. Carrie mentally shrugged and let her dress fall from her shoulders. My turn, sugar… The photos on Simon’s bedroom wall swam into her mind and she realised that the women were all like her and Anna – salt and pepper – and that the women were photographed in pairs. This was Simon’s thing, sex with two women at the same time, the ménage à trois. Ordinarily, a realisation such as this would have propelled her indignantly to the front door. But that part of her brain had been banished to a faraway land. Carrie looked at Anna and Simon and decided they were the two most beautiful people in the world, and that she wanted them both inside her. She moved behind Simon, and hugged him and held his cock as he thrust into her best friend. He turned and kissed her.
The flood continued to rise within Carrie until it arrived in her throat and began to swell. Her temperature soared, a white-hot burning within, melting her core. A certain sensation told her Simon was now fucking her from behind, but she couldn’t feel anything. Carrie looked down on Anna and saw that she hadn’t moved off the kitchen bench. Anna’s stomach heaved and the vomit, mostly champagne, erupted from her lips. Carrie staggered, unable to keep her legs under her, collapsing to the floor.
Simon knew something was seriously wrong. The courier had warned him about the stuff’s purity. But they all lied about their gear, didn’t they, to increase the anticipation and the price? Anna’s eyes were open, blank and staring, and the puking had stopped. Oh shit, oh shit. Simon hesitated for a few minutes, trying to think of an alternative to ringing the emergency number on the phone, thinking of the police, his career, about everything, in fact, except about the two naked women dying from an overdose in his designer kitchen.