La Di Da Di Bloody Da!
A Novel of Some Extremes
Robin Anderson
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Copyright © 2009 Robin Anderson.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Athena Press.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published in 2010 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com
ISBN: 1-59021-335-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-59021-335-3
Cover images: Graça Victoria / Jostaphot / Alexander Makarov.
Cover design: Alex Jeffers.
Table of Contents
Cover
A warm, witty and most glamorous lady
With Love and Admiration
Miranda dimpled prettily: “I’ve got a cock!”
“So? So have I!”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not if you don’t mind sixty-nine-ing!”
“I do have proper tits!”
“Mmmm! A cock and tits to suck!”
Miranda dimpled prettily again. “And I do have a hot, hot arsehole!”
“Which makes you a perfect fuck fatale then. Tits, an arse and a dick!”
“Your name, handsome, ambitious, promiscuous sir?”
“Henry. Henry Irving Victor.”
“Henry Irving Victor, I do like your style. You’ve gone and gotten yourself a Hades-hot date! But that name, Henry Irving Victor? Like the rest of you – if seeing is believing – it’s quite a mouthful for a girl!”
“Oh, I’m a mouthful all right. And any other fulls you may want!”
“Right, so let’s start with reducing the verbal one. Henry Irving Victor, from this moment on you will be introduced by Miss Miranda Maracona simply as Mr. HIV!”
“You make me sound infectious!”
“Oh, but Mr. HIV, I can assure you, you are!” Miranda gave what she assured herself was her irresistible “double dimple” smile. “HIV?” She allowed herself a quizzical frown (another well-practiced gesture). “Maybe you do have a point, apart from your obvious one!” She pondered for a moment before giving another throaty chuckle. “Sounds rather final, doesn’t it? Almost as if we’re ending before we begin! Tell you what, to me you shall simply be Hiv. Don’t you see it? Hiv rhymes with live! HIV sounds like finality!”
“What can I say to such seductive wisdom except that, Miss Maracona, if you still have the time, I certainly have the inclination!” He gave a lewd wink. “So, as I see you too have the inclination, why not give your glorious self to your newly christened Hiv, and let’s live one more time to celebrate the occasion!”
Chapter One
The unmissable sign – a bold, gold M and a K set on a bright red plastic illuminated heart – pulsated seductively alongside a brightly painted and equally red door. Kookie Kombuis, the “K” of the two letters, had wanted the sign to have a continual outline of running red flashes, but Miranda Maracona, the “M” of the two letters, had deemed a passionate, pulsating heart much more – to quote her – “to Cupid’s point.” She had also pointed out to a pouting Kookie that the M K Agency was a “love date agency” and not some “vulgar” club.
“We are transvestites with taste,” Miranda had announced firmly. “Not transvestites of tackiness!” To emphasize her sense of good taste, she had added a small, more informative, glass-enclosed plaque below the vital, beating organ. Set on a base of varnished pine in glittering rhinestones was the company slogan: You Want It? We’ve Got It!
Checking the sign had become a daily routine. On numerous occasions some local wag – the M K Agency was situated in a discreet doorway of Soho’s notorious “gay way,” namely Old Compton Street – had overwritten the “K” with an “S.” The mere association with “that vulgar chain” had seen Miranda on many a morning with her bottle of Waitrose’s best cleaning spray, energetically washing the heart with a color-coordinated (red) sponge. “Vulgar peasants!” she would also growl, a sure confirmation yet again that the word “vulgar” was one of her most favorite.
On this particularly fine spring mid-morning, the heart – like the rest of Old Compton Street – appeared to be unblemished.
With a whimsical smile playing on her scarlet, Botoxed lips, Miranda stepped jauntily from the taxi. Before turning to pay the driver she posed, model-like, her size-twelve shoes pointing with the left straight ahead and the other at a precarious angle to the right. She gazed from beneath her extra-long lashes at the pulsating heart, the glittering rhinestones and the gleaming red door. “Get a hard-on, Elizabeth Arden!” she quipped throatily, before allowing herself a slight chuckle at this daily bon mot (the reference of course being to the trademark red door to all of the Elizabeth Arden salons worldwide). “Miranda Maracona, love goddess supreme, is here!”
“That’ll be fourteen quid, madam,” said the taxi driver with a broad smile and an even broader wink.
“And you shall have fifteen, my good man!” Miranda gave him what she considered her most chilling look. “And had you used the back ways and Brewer Street as opposed to the Dilly and Shaftsbury Avenue, the fare would have been less and you still would have got your fifteen!”
“A quid is fine, thank you, madam,” came the quick riposte. “And I’m not too keen on using the back ways, if you catch my drift.” He gave Miranda another wink.
“Then don’t knock it until you try it!” retorted the lady in question haughtily. “Anal depression as opposed to anal impression can become very tiresome!”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He gestured to the pulsating heart. “I’ll come and pay a visit should I decide to suffer from pre-anal depression.” He gave another wink. “And what happens if I then go on to suffer from a post-anal one?”
“Looking at you and listening to your words of wisdom, cabbie, your whole world must revolve the prefix ‘pre.’ Pre-tty awful, pre-tty pathetic and pre-tty vulgar. Now, if you don’t mind, you owe me a pound change!”
With a look of disbelief the taxi driver managed to stammer, “You want my pound tip back?”
“Indeed.” Miranda held out her large hand, palm upwards. She wriggled her long fingers, flashing the equally long scarlet nails. “C’mon! Gimme!” She tossed back her shoulder-length raven black hair. “Teach you never to be flip again with a lady about anything pre,!” she hissed through her vibrant, painted and very disapproving, pursed lips. Without further ado, the scowling cabbie dropped the coin into her palm and accelerated away with a snarl of “Bloody tranny, fucking freak!” and other offensive expletives.
“Vulgar peasant!” was Miranda’s response as she daintily fitted the key into the lock.
Walking up the narrow mirrored staircase to the small reception area, she did what she always did on arrival. With a dramatic flourish, she pressed the button to activate the CD player. Immediately a loud, pulsating, rhythmic salsa beat filled the room. Another day at the M K Agency had begun. With a wiggle of her spectacular bosom, Miranda kicked off her platform shoes (red) and pranced along on tiptoe to the tiny kitchenette.
Opening the small fridge, she took out a jug of orange juice (Waitrose again), plus a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka from the even smaller ice compartment. “Start the day the Maracona way,” she sang throatily in time to the rhythmic beat. “Vitamin C with the necess-aree!” Pouring a healthy slug of iced vodka into a long highball glass, she topped it up dramatically with a splash of the juice. “Viva vitamins!” she sang. “Viva vulva!” she caroled. “Viva vagina!” she yodeled.
“You’re in fine voice, darling,” an equally throaty voice announced from the doorway. “Obviously Hiv has suitably lubricated the larynx this morning. I’ve not even had perchance to dream, swallow or even end up sitting painfully but nevertheless deliciously sidesaddle and suitably satiated. One of us partners has been out all night working overtime!”
Not missing a beat, Miranda grabbed another glass from the simulated pine cupboard and poured the partner in question an equally healthy dose of vitamins. “Tell me!” she yodeled as she sashayed over, narrow hips swinging. “Tell me all about it!”
Handing the drink across, she did a final turn, added a bump and grind and then leant provocatively against the one and only worktop in the kitchenette. “What happened with Zazu and Templeton?”
“Have you got a year or two to listen? I tell you, Miss M, Miss K is well and truly pissed off!”
“Not that I would ever be a bitch, Kookie dear, but looking at you that is a blatant understatement. You look like shit and, before you go all PC on me, that is not meant to be racist. You are, after all, a misunderstood princess from the kingdom of Nelson Mandela, where all princesses and handmaidens – if you catch my drift – are black!”
“So amusing for first thing in the morning.” Kookie Kombuis gave an inelegant sniff and glanced at the Swiss cuckoo clock set above the tiny sink. “Or should I say afternoon, as I see it is already twenty past noon!”
“Whatever makes you feel happiest, dear. Now, come back into the orifice and tell me all!” Miranda’s voice had risen to a more strident pitch due to the deafening salsa beat which was still pounding out relentlessly. She turned down the music to a more acceptable thumping sound and sat herself down elegantly in a bright purple and gold damask upholstered wingback chair behind an over-elaborate carved gilt and mahogany reproduction desk. “Jewey Louis meets Yiddisher Renaissance” was Miranda’s favorite comment when asked the style of the apparition. Kookie Kombuis meanwhile settled herself comfortably in a similar chair, but one covered in vibrant orange velour. Miranda took another elegant sip of her drink, the rim of the glass now bright red with her lipstick, contrasting attractively with the orange liquid. “Now, Kookie Kombuis, love goddess supreme. Stun me with all.”
Kookie Kombuis tossed her blonde Dolly Parton-like hairdo, took an equally reassuring sip and gave out a large, theatrical sigh. “It won’t stun you, M. It’ll simply slay you.”
“So, slay me if you dare! Zazu and Templeton? Tell your magical Miranda Maracona all and then some.”
Kookie gave a sidelong glance at a framed poster of her, Miranda and Julian Clary at some charity function. Miranda could not help but give a wince. Kookie in profile was not at her best. Irrespective of Miranda’s many offers to “have a nose job in between doing a blow job,” her “kind” and “generous” offer had been ignored. Kookie was immensely proud of her Zulu heritage, hence a broad flat African nose, and refused to go “ridiculously retroussé.”
(“You’ll want me to do a Michael Jackson next,” she had pouted between her symbolically thick African lips [her “Ivana Trumps!” as she claimed], “And bleach! Surely a bleached Dolly Parton wig is enough?”
“If you are so determined to be an African princess, why not more Diana Ross as opposed to Dolly P?” Miranda had acidly asked. “Why, I even know you’ve bleached your Brazilian!”
“This tranny Annie has her reasons,” Kookie had airily replied. “Like a cock instead of a cunt down there, it makes a kind of startling statement when a suitor gets down to it!”)
Miranda topped up their glasses (she had brought the relevant ingredients through with her). “What is this? A vow of silence? Speak, woman, speak!”
Kookie turned to look at her friend, her large brown eyes soulful, her long (false) eyelashes quivering. “I’ve gone and done the most terrible thing,” she whispered throatily. “Terrible, terrible,” she whispered again, shaking the immense blonde wig for added effect.
“You’ve got the clap!” announced Miranda cheerfully. “Let’s face it, even with all your trying you could never be pregnant.”
“Very blerry funny,” hissed Kookie, her South African accent coming to a fore and proving that she was truly pissed off or distressed. “Very vokking blerry funny.” She took a slow sip – Kookie was basing the scene on Margo Channing, a favorite persona of hers – and said, “I’ve fallen in love with Templeton!”
“You’ve what?” Miranda thumped her glass down disrespectfully on the Jewey Louis. “You’ve gone and done what?”
“I’ve fallen in love with Templeton! Do I have to repeat myself here?”
“But you can’t fall in love with a client! It’s against orifice policy!”
“Very bloody funny,” laughed Kookie dryly (she had reverted to her “Knaightsbride accent” once more, which Miranda took as a good sign). “Very ha ha, very bloody funny. Orifice policy, indeed. Your orifice doesn’t rule your heart!”
“In this case it obviously does!” announced Miranda crisply. “Now we all know Templeton has a big dick – no, I rest my case, make that an obscenely big dick, more champagne bottle than Coca-Cola – but that bottle’s meant to be drilling Zazu, not you!”
“I know, I know,” wailed Kookie, “but I can’t help it!” She searched furiously for a tissue in the gold and pink sequined evening bag she was still holding. Blowing her nose with a loud honking sound (Miranda visibly winced), she said, “It’s all that bitch’s fault! That fucking Zazu. If she hadn’t decided to get drunk it would never have happened!”
“What do you mean ‘if she hadn’t decided to get drunk’? Zazu Thatcher doesn’t drink.”
“Is a rabbi cut? What do you mean Zazu doesn’t drink? She’d make Moby Dick look teetotal!”
“Well she obviously didn’t make Templeton’s dick look teetotal to you. More like bloody total!”
“Very funny.” Kookie gave a glare, her composure returning. She threw back her immense shoulders which rippled like sinewy black snakes beneath the thin straps to her tight mauve satin cocktail dress. “Do you want me to continue with this story or not?”
Miranda gave a grand gesture. “Fire away. The whore is yours!”
“I will not sit here and be insulted,” hissed Kookie, rising majestically on her silver platforms. “Some friend you are, Miranda merde Maracona!” she spat out, before moving unsteadily towards the main door.
“Oh, stop being such a drama queen!” laughed Miranda in her best Blanche DuBois manner. “Sit down and tell me all about you and Templeton. Tell you what,” she glanced down at the small Cartier watch almost lost on her beefy wrist. “It’s almost time for lunch. What about a burger and a bottle at Balans?”
“A burger at Balans sounds just the ticket.”
“Well, seeing how your luck seems to be running, who knows? Maybe a Balans burger may even turn out to be a Balans bugger!”
“Bitch!”
“Cocksucker!”
“Rimmer!”
“Rimmer? Now I am hungry for a burger! I can’t wait to get my lips between one of their sesame buns.”
“Now that, Miz Maracona, is disgusting!”
“If you have any complaints, Miz Kombuis, I suggest you take them up with the delicious Danny. Now, that glorious young man has a pair of buns to make any woman’s mouth water.” She finished her drink and stood up, saying. “I suggest you ‘freshen up,’ dear – you don’t want to startle the Balans boys. I’ll quickly listen to the messages and then we can descend.”
“I do not need to freshen up!”
“Darling, your Dolly Parton is a teeny lopsided. Why, you look positively more Dolly Pisa than Parton!” Miranda gave a throaty chuckle at her latest witty jibe while Kookie, giving her a disdainful glare, disappeared into the “powder room” to adjust herself.
The powder room, walled in pink and blue striped wallpaper with a tented ceiling in a matching fabric, carried another witty sign announcing His & Hers, again set in the de rigueur rhinestones on the bright purple door. (“Pink for a girl and blue for a boy,” Miranda had caroled when choosing the relevant paper and fabric. She had turned down Kookie’s suggestion of wallpaper covered in four-letter words. “We are not a vulgar organization,” she had announced with a definitive snort. “We are noted for our subtlety and style.” The final comment had been made accompanied by a grand sweeping gesture taking in the candy floss pink walls and purple doors to the reception area.)
The first two messages Miranda took as superfluous but it was the third that caught her interest. She listened to this twice before taking up a large penis-style pen and jotting a few words on the bright yellow notepad, the pages of which were boldly emblazoned with the words No Shit! in strident red lettering. “Hmm,” muttered Miss Maracona, a whimsical smile playing on her scarlet lips. “Now this could be interesting… Very interesting.”
She looked up as Kookie Kombuis came sashaying out from the powder room. “I think we may have a new client. I’ll fill you in during lunch.” Miranda could not resist the obvious remark to follow her comment. “Although I am sure you would prefer Templeton to be doing the filling!”
“Bitch!”
“Cocksucker! Now, shall we go and stun Balans before you flatter me even more?”
* * *
A smiling Danny, the tall, slim and extremely handsome maître d’, welcomed the two with genuine delight. “Miss Miranda and Miss Kookie!” he beamed. “You’re early today.”
“Well, as they say, Danny,” chuckled Miranda, dropping her eyes and giving Danny’s crotch a deliberate leer, “the early bird always catches the biggest worm!”
Danny gave a nervous laugh. “Let me show you to your table. Dale is your waiter this lunchtime and he can tell you our specials of the day.”
“Oh, no need to stand on ceremony, Danny Boy,” caroled Kookie. “We’re simple girls today. Burgers and a bottle, that’s all. It’s strictly business.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Kookie. Simply tell Dale. I’ll come along and check everything later.” He gave another smile as he made sure the two were seated comfortably in one of the secluded booths at the back of the restaurant.
“Thank you, Danny!” laughed Miranda girlishly. “And you do just that. Come along and check everything later!”
Danny gave a light laugh. “Meanwhile I’ll leave you in the capable hands of young Dale here.”
Miranda smiled up at the hovering and obviously extremely nervous waiter. “Well, young Dale here, two Dannys please, very rare! Oops!” She gave an unladylike guffaw. “I mean two of your equally delicious hamburgers, rare as my Freudian slip!”
“Two burgers,” muttered the bemused young man. “Anything to drink while you wait?”
“Oh, definitely. Two screwdrivers, with a double dose of vodka in each. Don’t order the burgers just yet. When we are almost through with our screws, you can put your little operation into effect. And with the burgers we’ll have a bottle of that glorious Chilean Merlot.”
She fluttered her long eyelashes demurely. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” The nervous waiter nodded. “And you’re South African, aren’t you?” Dale nodded again, rather like a rabbit caught in the headlamps of an oncoming car. “I thought so. You sound so like my gracious partner, Miz Kombuis. Only more falsetto.” Miranda gave another fanciful flutter of her lashes. “Dankie,” she added with a wave of her large hand. “Now, get those screwdrivers, darling. Chop chop! These two ladies are gasping!”
“Right away, er…miss,” mumbled the waiter. “Right away.” He swept off to the long bar, where he ordered the drinks in between a quick conversation with the barman. Miranda waved cheerily to the young barman, who gave an equally cheery wave in return.
“All these young men are so divine here,” she said wistfully. “In fact, it becomes more and more of a glorious bunfight daily. Now, where were we, if, sadly, not between divine Danny’s buns.”
“Well, it depends, Miz Maracona. Ah, thank you, Dale.”
Kookie gave the young waiter a ravishing smile as he placed a large screwdriver down in front of each of them. She looked again at Miranda, who was thirstily taking a large sip of the enticing yellow drink. “You mentioned a new client, or do you want to discuss that bitch Zazu, Templeton and perhaps even give a moment to me and the agony I may be going through?”
“My dear Kookie K! When it comes to something to do with either of us personally, that is what takes priority. Now, tell your business partner and trusted friend all. Miz Maracona is all ears.”
“All earrings, more likely,” sniffed Kookie. She looked scathingly at the pair of gold penises hanging from her partner’s earlobes. “Where on earth did you get those flaccid dicks from?”
“The Pleasure Chest, when in New York the other week. They’re meant to be nipple rings but yours truly here, with my usual flair, thought of another more viewable use for them. Now, enough of my accoutrements and let’s get down to business. Zazu, Templeton and you first. The new client can wait.”
“Who is the new client?” asked Kookie suspiciously. “I know you too well, Miranda dear, you’re baiting me now.”
“But I thought you, Zazu and Templeton were primo uno? Why, I’ve never seen you with your Janet Regers in such a twist before.”
“Ha, blerry ha! You know how to wind me up. Zazu – that fucking small-dicked bitch – can wait. Tell me about this mysterious new client. You’ve been sitting there smirking like a cat that got the cum. Come on, out with it!”
Miranda lowered her eyes demurely. “May I just say one little word.” She looked up, pausing for dramatic effect. “Royal,” she whispered throatily.
“Royal? You don’t mean one of the princes, wee Willie and ‘I wish I was hung’ Harry?”
“Of course not, dear. Too dull, too desperate, too contrived and at the same time too airbrushed to do anything so original as come to us! Think again, think of a recent foreign scandal.”
“Foreign scandal? Well, the Rainiers are out. They’re either too serious, too fat or too balding. Greek? I always think of extra virgin olive oil – or is that the Italian lot?”
“Wrong dear. Totally wrong. Why, you’re so out in the cold that even your well tucked-away balls are blue.”
“Well, there are simply no royals left I can think of, unless you’re referring to my homeland. We don’t have any Zulu royals but there are two of whatever the currency is in Ghana and such places.”
“No, Miz Kombuis – I need another screwdriver – I mean European royal.” Miranda beckoned the nervously – and curiously – hovering Dale. “Dale darling, two more of these devastating screwdrivers, please, and do ask the dear barman not to add the vodka in drops but in dollops instead!” She turned again to her business partner. “Think Cossacks. Think Red Square. Think Molotov cocktails!”
“You mean Russian?”
“But of course, dear. Russian, romance and lots and lots of roubles!”
“Perhaps we ought to be celebrating with a Molotov cocktail instead of another screwdriver.”
Miranda gave Kookie a lot of disdain. “A Molotov cocktail is not a drink, Miz Kombuis. It’s a bomb.”
“Even better.” replied Kookie drily, not to be outdone. “Tell me more.”
“Prince Igor – he’d have to be an Igor, wouldn’t he? – is a tortured, lonely heart from the northern province of Bejesustan.”
“Bejesustan? Tell me you’re joking. Next you’ll be telling me the capital is Judastan.”
Miranda’s heavily outlined eyes opened wide with genuine surprise. “But it is! Goodness, Miz Kombuis. At times your knowledge of trivia completely overwhelms me. Almost as much as your daily applications of Opium!”
“My geographical knowledge is extensive,” smirked Kookie, her large lilac-painted lips curling sardonically.
“I thought that was your anatomical knowledge!” laughed Miranda in what she considered a merry, madcap way. “You’ve always been – if my brilliant mind serves me well – more interested in penises than peninsulas, or cocks as opposed to continents.”
“Very funny, Miranda. But, back to the princeling Igor. How, where and what?”
Miranda took a sip from the replaced screwdriver. “Ah, now at least one can taste the vodka.” She gave another madcap toss of her long black mane. “It may not be a Molotov cocktail,” she pouted mischievously, “but the vodka still makes it appropriately Russkie.” She dabbed her enhanced lips delicately with a paper table napkin. “Thank Hiv. He’s responsible for this catch.”
“Hiv? Darling, why, he can’t even catch his initials,” Gauging Miranda’s expression at such a slight against her lover, Kookie immediately back-pedaled. “Sorry dearest, a witty riposte which wasn’t all that witty after all. Forgive, forget and please continue.”
Giving another glare Miranda did as asked. “Henry Irving simply happened to be in that amusing little local Russian dive off Brewer Street – the one with the amplified balalaikas – when he started chatting up this lonely young man who was perched at the bar and seemingly determined to down more vodka than the Volga.”
“A lonely young man? Weren’t you, aren’t you, the teeniest bit jealous?”
“Me, jealous? Never! Hiv is spoken for. He adores his Miranda! No, he claimed that the young man looked so lonely, so homesick and so depressed, and added more to this overall impression by starting to make the strangest of moaning sounds in a very odd falsetto.”
“Goodness!”
“It gets even more intriguing. An anxious Hiv – he has this kind if somewhat curious streak in him –” (Miranda chose to ignore Kookie’s muttered “No comment”) – “simply could not refrain from touching the young man lightly on his cotton blouson sleeve and asking him if he was feeling unwell. Obviously the youth in question was thrilled to have someone concerned about his well-being. No, he was not unwell, not in pain but simply homesick – see how intuitive Hiv can be? It’s almost uncanny at times – and was simply humming his country’s national anthem.”
“How patriotic,” muttered Kookie, looking anxiously around for Dale and pointing vigorously at her empty glass when he materialized out of the gloom. “Is he a student? A tourist or something even more mundane?”
“Don’t be so moronic, Kookie! At times I despair of you! Haven’t I just said what could be the three most important words three words today?”
“Another screwdriver, Dale?”
“Per-lease, Miz Kombuis. This is no time for jokes. No, the young man – once he had come to the end of their national anthem – stood up rather unsteadily and clicked his heels…I think Hiv said he was wearing trainers, actually, so it was more of a shuffle than a click…anyway, he put his heels together, bowed and on holding out his royal appendage, uttered the magical words –”
“Three or more?”
“Uttered the magical words, ‘Prince Igor Pisskossovitch’!”
“Aah. One of the Pisskossovitches.”
“You know them?”
“Not at all. But I thought I should make some suitably impressed relevant reference. So, what has this got to do with us?”
“I’ll tell you once we’ve ordered our burgers.” Miranda waved graciously at Dale. “Wine and our order, please,” she caroled in her deep vibrato. She looked pointedly at Kookie. “Imagine Hiv with a Russian makeover. How would you possibly describe him?”
“Oh dear,” murmured Kookie, giving her empty glass a look of desperation. Her eyes swiveling wildly (Miranda, in good faith, took this as wild adulation and admiration at the thoughts crossing her mind), Kookie took a deep gulp (sans vodka) and, crossing her large fingers beneath the table, spoke. “Imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger doing Attila the Hun with a touch of George Clooney?” she said, while being slightly unfair and bitchy and thinking, Ken Dodd doing Des O’Connor with a touch of Paul O’Grady.
“God, Miz Kombuis, you can be so astute at times!” Miranda gave a triumphant laugh. “What a description – and goodness, doesn’t it conjure up a fascinating threesome.” She tossed her hair in a carefree manner once again. Leaning forward and clutching her wine glass (the imported Merlot had duly arrived), she said, “To cut a longish story short, Princey-boy asked Hiv if he would care to join him for dinner! He went on to say that he never had the chance to actually ‘meet a common man’ that often – Hiv was most flattered – and he felt Hiv was someone he could ‘connect with.’”
“With his very large balalaika, no doubt!”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Kookie, now happily holding a glass of wine, nodded an affirmation.
“Well, Princey-boy suggested they come here.”
“Here? You mean this very Balans?”
“This very one. Well, imagine Hiv’s surprise. Of course, he swore Danny to secrecy, explaining that his companion was a ‘potential client,’ and only when the deal was sealed would I be brought into the picture.” Miranda gave a wistful sigh. “Dear Hiv is always so considerate. Never, ever would he want to upset me with some vicious, vacuous rumor.”
“Of course not.”
“Anyway, little Prince Igor – did I mention Hiv said he looks like Kylie dressed as if she’s the principal boy in a pantomime? – announced most firmly that dinner was on him, and promptly ordered a whole bottle of vodka! Hiv being Hiv sipped his while our little Russian princeling simply downed his glass in one gulp at a time. For a moment he became rather grand and demanded the music be changed to something more soulful and was delighted when the CD was changed to ABBA! He also demanded caviar blinis followed by roast boar, and our intrepid Danny, without the blink of an eye, accepted the order and dutifully served hummus pancakes followed by steak, both of which His Highness later described as delicious, and asked Danny to see if the chef would perhaps care for a job in the royal palace in the capital, Judastan! Nothing at all vulgar about little Igor, as you can well see!”
“Goodness!”
“It gets better. Little Prince kept looking around at the merry tables of giggling gay couples and then back at our gently smiling Hiv. Finally, Princey-boy tentatively put his hand on the table –”
“Not his cards?”
“Later, Miz Kombuis. Later. At times you can be so, so vulgar. You always want to interrupt!” Miranda gave an exasperated sigh and took another sip of her wine. “Now we come to the pièce de résistance! The grand denouement of the evening. Little Kylie – I mean Igor – shuffles his hand shyly over towards Hiv and whispers the ‘improbable’ phrase, ‘I’m gay. Do you mind?’ followed by, ‘And I think I’m falling in love with you, even though you are not quite right for me. Not quite what I really want.’”
“And what does this little prince of darkness really want which could possibly usurp Hiv?”
Miranda, her eyes aglow, leaned forward and whispered rapidly into the left side of Kookie’s wig.
“No,” said Kookie in a shocked whisper, her eyes popping out of her black face like two ping-pong balls.
“Yes!” crowed Miranda triumphantly. “And thanks to Hiv we are to find little Igor’s true, true love!”
Chapter Two
Miranda and Kookie were back in the offices of the M K agency, a fresh bottle of vodka and a carton of juice placed firmly on the Jewey Louis between them. Miranda looked at her partner most seriously. “Whitney,” she drawled, “we have a problem.”
“Sweetheart, don’t I know it! We are so in orbit that I see a return to earth for Princey-boy may be an impossibility.”
“Never say die, dearest! And in addition to our slogan, what is the M and K motto? ‘Love or Bust!’ And you can take that as you wish. The double entendre is definitely to be taken seriously. After all, we do cater for the happy homo, the happy hermaphrodite and the tantalizing transvestite. Hence our name, ‘The Love Agency’!”
“So which of the three are we dealing with? I take it Princey is an unhappy version of the first?”
“No dear, and this is the problem. Princey has to get married for appearances’ sake but he has put his little Gucci-shod foot down most firmly.
“They have Gucci in Bejesustan?”
“Darling, the new Russia is nothing but designer labels! And please, Miz Kombuis, either let me finish my vodka alone or simply put those two pliable lips firmly together!”
Kookie promptly stuck out her lips, forming a large horizontal lilac sausage. She fluttered her long lashes demurely and crossed her silk-encased muscular legs.
“That’s better.” Miranda paused to light a cigarette with a black lighter shaped like a cock and balls (the flame tuned to splutter out as if the lighter was ejaculating). She took a long draw on the black Sobranie, took a long sip of her drink and continued. “The problem is that whilst Princey-pet may fantasize over the delights of Hiv, he is destined to marry a suitable girl from a gaggle of the dears his parent has been studying as possible brides. Princey is distraught and – after a visit to the notorious Bugis Street in Singapore – has decided on a ladyboy as a bride, with an adopted heir to follow. To quote the young man, ‘I’ll never get it up with a girl, I don’t want to even attempt to get it up with a girl and I have no intention whatsoever of marrying one! I shall marry a beautiful ladyboy, whom I shall pass off as my bride. Two willing willies and a boy with tits is the answer!’”
“So, how does this very determined young man see his future? A ladyboy as a bride, an adopted heir or two or three, plus a handsome, horny, hunky lover on the side? Or will it be a stimulating threesome from day one? A triumvirate of homos on the homomoon? And well-hung lover comes – and I mean that literally – too!”
“You can ask him for yourself, dear. He and Hiv have asked us to dinner tonight.”
“Asked us to dinner? Where, for God’s sake?”
“The Ritz, no less. Princey-boy claims he prefers Rococo to vulgar Jewveau riche – for example the Dorchester – or minimalistic like the Mayfair. He’s taken a vast suite there.”
“I take it minimalist does not apply to his paramour-to-be as well as the delicate he-bride?”
“Oh no, Miz K, Prince Igor wants his princess to be beautiful, have fabulous tits – he likes the idea of dressing her up, a touch like playing with a breathing Russian Barbie – but most of all, a stupendous cock. It seems that whilst lover’s away, the princess must also play…”
“What a very strange young man. He certainly wants to have his cake and gobble it. And you say we are meeting this Kylie lookalike tonight?”
“Tonight and, in the meantime, dear, we had not only put on our best bib and fucker, we had also put on two very serious thinking caps. Quite honestly, I simply cannot think of anyone who remotely fits the picture for the Hiv-like ‘on the side’ paramour!”
“There’s always one of us, dearest.”
“Us? Miz Kombuis, that is not even remotely amusing. Talk about Cinderella and her two ugly sisters. Why, it would be a case of Bridget the Russian Midget meets King Kong!”
“I refuse to be compared to an ape!”
“I’m talking size here, dearest, not appearances.”
“Thank you, Miz M. For a moment you had your sister-in-arms almost up in arms.” Kookie gave an unladylike yawn. “Do you really think we can pull this one off?”
“If we can’t,” snorted Miranda, “nobody can.” She reached for the telephone. “I’ve a thought. I’m calling Derek.”
“Derek?”
“Derek Dingle, the hairdresser. He’s got a cousin who may be able to help.”
“How?”
“The cousin has just won the title of Miss Teutonic Tranny. She’s nineteen, plays in the local trannys’ soccer team and is known to her colleagues as Betina Becks. She’s divine to look at, apparently, and everybody, but everybody on the team – according to Derek – is positively green about her not-so-little secret!”
“And what does this Betina Becks do for a living?”
“She’s a kennel maid!”
“The mind simply boggles. I wonder if Princey-boy does it doggie fashion – or she does?”
“Miz Kombuis! Discretion per-lease. We may just be talking of the future hunky ‘Princess Bit-on-the-side’ of Bejesustan here. Whether he, she or they do it doggie fashion or Bejesustan-ing up, it makes no difference. They are potential clients and should be treated with our usual kid gloves.”
“Surgical gloves, more likely! The Prince and the Kennel Maid? Disney could have a heyday with that.”
“And unless we get our generous, glorious arses moving, dear heart, it could be our mayday.”
“Do you think I should change?”
“Well, darling, you have been in that little number since yesterday’s sunset. Nothing upstairs that you can squeeze into?”
Miranda and Kookie had inherited a small garret-like flat along with the offices. The flat, with a small shower room, kitchenette and studio room, was given over to serving mainly as a changing room for the two. Miranda had installed a full wall of hanging cupboards and shelves, a large full-length mirror, an ironing board, two cozy armchairs and a well-stocked open bar. “Harlots’ Haven” is what the two called it, and neither the ubiquitous Hiv nor the godlike Templeton had ever been allowed to enter its hallowed precincts.
(“One has to keep some part of our virginity intact!” Kookie had haughtily told an amorous swain on one or two occasions after a wine-infused dinner at the local Balans. “I’m no cheapskate. It’s either your hotel, which, like myself, must be deluxe, or it’s on yer bike, mate – and I don’t mean à la fucking ‘Daisy, Daisy’!”)
“Miranda Maracona, if I have to squeeze into something, honey, it ain’t a dress, and vice versa.”
“You, Miz Kombuis, are nothing more than a tart at times!” Miranda gave her throaty Lauren Bacall-like laugh. “Now, get us another drink while I speak to the delicious Derek. Once I have done that, I will be all ears to hear about you and your torrid traumas concerning the devilish and dishy Templeton.”
She gave an imperious gesture before picking up the telephone and quickly punching in a number. After a few rings, the call was answered. “Dingle, darling? Miranda Maracona. Before you even have a chance to say you’ll have to check your diary, you and Betina Becks are invited to dinner tonight, and I refuse to hear one teensy-weensy fabrication as to why you can’t!” There was a series of staccato expletives in response to this firm instruction. “Now, dear, just listen before you go into one of your queeny vapors. Simply listen to this lovely young but extremely wise and totally devastating day-and-night owl!”
Having finally talked Derek into her rapidly unfolding plan, Miranda rang Hiv. “Henry,” she cooed, “it’s your mystical Miranda. I’ve had a very serious meeting with Miz Kombuis and yes, of course – as our motto says – ‘You want it? We’ve got it!’ Does Princey-boy like soccer? He does? And what was that little witticism? You’re sure he would never say no to a chance to dribble and shoot with the likes of Becks? Darling, Little Princey’s prayers are about to be well and truly answered. The Ritz at nine? Divine. It will give Miz Kombuis and me a chance to call into dear Madonna Moon’s ‘Fun Fur’ evening at her tacky salon in that ghastly, claustrophobic, desperate Beauchamp Place. Poor Madonna, doesn’t she realize ‘fun furs’ were only fun in the seventies? I ask you, who’d wish to be seen dead in pink mink, unless you are a gay mink!” Miranda gave another throaty chuckle at this bon mot and put down the gilt phone.
“Poor Hiv,” she muttered to a scarlet fingernail. “So sweet and so naïve at times.”
She patted her raven locks as looked back down at the note scrawled on the pad below. No Shit! said the message left by Mike the Spike, the gay porn star who had been their office cleaner for the past year “in between films.” It went on, “Have a part in a new movie. Visit me in Hollywood! Love M the S.”
“No shit?” huffed Miranda. “This is total shit! And let’s face it, with you, dear Mike, it’s more than likely to be Bollockswood.” She looked at the note again. “But here’s the answer. It’s been dusting for us all along. Mike the Spike completes the plan!
“Kookie!” she caroled. “Kookie! You know the other problem I told you about? I think I’ve resolved it!”
Kookie came teetering in from the kitchenette, a fresh jug of screwdrivers in her large hand. “What other problem? I thought Betina Becks was our answer.”
“She is, as a temporary stand-in – or up! – whatever. But she is – on second thoughts – not, and never will be, an Hiv with accoutrements!” Miranda gave another sigh. “At the end of the day, dear, Betina simply wouldn’t be able to cope. Once a kennel maid, always a kennel maid, and even though she would probably be more than willing to settle in Bejesustan, I have a feeling her scoring may not be up to the standard for those tricky goalposts at the palace.”
“Oh my God, how remiss of me! I’d forgotten about that part of the problem. I was thinking only of London whilst we look for our ladyboy. You’re absolutely right, Betina’s reign would be very short-lived.”
Miranda nodded approvingly at such a wise observation. Kookie could be surprisingly astute at times. “You are so right, Miz Kombuis. Our canine queen is far more Bob Martins than belle époque! More Battersea Doggies’ Home than Crufts, if you get my drift. I think, at the end of the day, Betina is – and let’s not be too cruel here, but we are looking at the long term – somewhat more kennel than royal palace!”
Kookie looked admiringly at her smirking friend. “Honestly, Miranda Maracona, you never fail to amaze me.”
“It’s in the genes, Miz Kombuis. It’s simply in the genes. Who can ever dispute the fact that two sexes are better than one!” She smacked the yellow pad with her fist, causing Kookie almost to spill part of her precious drink. “As I said, here’s our answer, sitting – or rather lying – right in front of us! The one and only Mike the Spike!”
“Mike the Spike? But darling heart, why Mike? I know he’s big and beautiful and from that last video he did, Strangers Up My Arse, we all know he outshines even the spectacular Hiv. But, let’s face it, he’s no more a tranny than our own Princess Annie.”
“Think of several words beginning with ‘a’…”
“The letter ‘a’? Why, the first word to spring to my sweet and gentle mind is ‘amour,’ followed by ‘adorable’ and ‘available.’”
Miranda gave a snort. “Typical!” She could not resist another. “That may well be as far as you are concerned – you are such a bad liar – but think of three words that would spring to mind if you were Mike the Spike.”
“Easy. ‘Avaricious,’ ‘ambitious’ and extremely ‘able.’”
“Exactly!” Miranda reached for the telephone once more and rapidly dialed a number. “Mike? Got your note, dear. Congratulations, of course, from Miz Kombuis and yours truly, but we are devastated, absolutely devastated, at you leaving us. Tell you what – we both know it’s very last minute – but are you free for dinner tonight? You are? Fantastic! The Ritz at nine? Oh, and Mike, even though it is the Ritz, make sure the spike is well and truly on display. M & K may have a very unsuspecting surprise for you! No dear, if I told you what it is, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? See you at nine, then, all plumped up and primed!”
She looked up at Kookie, who was regarding her with some alarm. “What?”
“What are you playing at? Mike the Spike is godlike – Brad Pitt meets Jude Law and Orlando in his bloom – but although he has more than the Amazon River below his equator, he is all testosterone and torso above it.”
“You’ve forgotten the third word beginning with ‘t.’”
“What word?”
“Tits!”
“Tits? That’s exactly what I haven’t forgotten. Mike is all pecs, not tits.”
“So?”
Kookie regarded her beaming partner, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Don’t even begin to think what you’re thinking. He’d never! Not in a hundred years.”
Miranda continued to look up with a mischievous smile, the famous dimples now coming into full play. “It’s so easy. Mike the Spike joins the Bejesustan court in some role such as PA to Princey-boy. They all wear those strange tunics, blousons and such and so, while he is butch by day, he bares his boobs by night! Princey has his fantasy man woman as well as his ladyboy. Think jock by day and Jordan by night!”
“It will never work!”
“Nonsense, he can wear one of those flattening bras when not on display in Princey’s privates apartment.”
“But that’s the problem. Mike the Spike has no tits! He’s all pecs!”
“Miz Kombuis, at times I really do despair with you! Drop your eyes girl and what do you see? A splendid pair of mega mammaries!”
“He’d never!”
“Wanna bet? Let’s see how we get on at dinner tonight.” She pursed her lips into a large scarlet “O.” “Now I think of it, we’d better make sure that Princey only has his appetite whetted as far as Mike is concerned. Mike can have a previous after-dinner engagement. Tonight it’s Betina Becks and only a hint of what Mike has to offer. If Princey takes the bait, then we go into plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“Yes, plan B. We discuss our plot with Mike and, if he is willing, organize him a pair of gigantic tits. If things don’t work out, he simply goes back to having pecs, and we see if we can possibly begin to train Betina!” She gave a wistful sigh. “I must say I wouldn’t say no to a luxurious dacha in Bejesustan and a sable or two.”
“For a moment I thought you’d said ‘stable!’”
“That too, Miss K. I hear those Bejesustanians can fuck the bejesus out of one!”
“Well then, I shall insist on an open return or maybe even a resident’s permit! But I don’t think I’d like to end up in a Dachau!”
“Nor would I, dear,” replied Miranda drily. “A dacha is somewhat more my scene than a concentration camp. You must stop acting like some tranny Mrs. Malaprop, dear! What with Molotov cocktails as an aperitif and Dachau as a country retreat, you could find yourself definitely up the proverbial shit creek!”
“As I sometimes do, literally.”
“No need to be so anal, dearest.” Miranda gave a sniff. “I must say, I can see myself à la Miss Julie Christie, wrapped in luxurious sables as I speed along in my sleigh towards my dacha, a handsome Omar Sharif lookalike by my side.”
“Surely you mean Hiv by your side?”
“Dear, when abroad why not sample the local talent? Why not a local Doctor Zhivago as opposed to an imported Doctor Embargo!”
“Very funny, Miz Maracona.” She gave her partner a quizzical look. “You are serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Very. In fact, this could be the breakthrough we have been looking for. Money galore and certainly a peacock’s feather in each of our caps. M & K are heading for the big time, so, partner dear, I suggest you go and prepare yourself for the fray. Meanwhile I’ll call the Ritz and make a reservation.” She gave a slight frown. “I suppose it would be too much to expect but you wouldn’t, by the remotest chance, just happen to know the colors of the Bejesustan flag?”
“Are you mad, Miranda, dear? I can barely remember the colors of the Union Jack.”
Miranda gave a snort. “As to be expected. Hold on while I Google it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because, my dear Miz Kombuis, when we walk into the Ritz this evening, we will not only be flying the flag for Bejesustan, we will be wearing it!”
Miranda turned to the computer on the low glass table alongside her desk and briskly typed in her query. Peering at the screen, she looked up at Kookie with a smile. “How auspicious. The flag is made up of four horizontal bands of color. White, gold, purple and pink!” She gave a deep-throated chuckle. “Miz Kombuis, until tonight, the Ritz ain’t seen nuthin’ yet!” She gave another madcap laugh. “I think I was a bit hasty earlier in my condemnation of Madonna Moon and her fun furs.”
A momentary frown dared itself to appear on her unlined forehead. “I wonder…? Yes, I feel sure she would for promotion purposes.”
“Madonna Moon would what?”
“Loan me a pink mink for this evening. After all, minks simply have to be an export from a country somewhere in the godforsaken tundra!”
“Tundra?”
“For once you’re right to question me, Miz Kombuis, and I sit corrected. Tundra is flat and frozen; Bejesustan – according to Hiv – is mountainous and majestic. They produce some of the best world skiers. In fact, I seem to recall dear Hiv telling me about a glorious, mega creature – Boris Balswichitzh or something like that – who won several gold medals at the last Winter Olympics.”
“He was lucky he wasn’t scratched!” shrieked Kookie.
“Miz Kombuis,” said Miranda severely. “Decorum, per-lease. From now on, anything connected with Bejesustan is sacred.” She stared up at Kookie, her eyes narrowing. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. The magical Maracona has come up with an even more sensational idea! Forget the court thing and think last year’s Beijing!”
“Beijing? What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”
“In this case, my dear Miz Kombuis, the eggs in question could be pure, pure Fabergé!”
“Fabergé? Who is Fabergé? You’ve lost me.”
“Dear Kookie K, you were lost years ago and it wasn’t just in the wilderness. Olympics, dear, Olympics, but with this proposed nest egg, a winter one! And it’s what are Fabergé, Kookie K, not who. I’m referring to his creations, dear. Not the creator himself. Think eggs, my dear Kookie K. Golden Fabergé fucking fantastic eggs!”
“But of course,” muttered Kookie, lowering her eyes demurely and looking even more confused. She looked back at Miranda, who was Googling furiously once more.
“Ah!” Miranda gave a triumphant cry. “Look!” she said, pointing to the screen as Kookie moved over to the side of the desk and peered at the handsome face smiling back at them.
“So? Big deal, a pic of Mike the Spike. I don’t need reminding what the dear hunk looks like. I thought we had already worked out what we are planning to do with him.”
“That, my dear Miz Kombuis, is not Mike the Spike. That glorious doppelgänger you see before you is none other than the gorgeous Boris Balswichitzh.”
Kookie Kombuis’s eyes did their famous ping-pong ball routine for the second time that day. “Miranda Maracona, if you are thinking what I’m thinking, you are one terrific, talented and one helluva twisted transvestite!”
Miranda gave a carefree shake of her black locks. “Thank you, dear, but this sees yet another change in our plans. And tout de suite!”
She picked up the phone again and dialed furiously, giving a visible sigh of relief when it was immediately answered. “Mike, thank God I caught you! A change in the plan, dear one. Apologies galore, but the Ritz has been cancelled – yes, in the last few minutes – but can you meet me and Kookie tomorrow evening instead?” She waved a muscular arm at an about-to-protest Kookie, her bracelets jangling furiously. “No, no! Not the Ritz this time, Mike, dear, but Borscht ’n’ Tears in Knightsbridge, Beauchamp Place. Will the same time suit? Lovely!’ She gave a knowing smile and nodded her head slowly. “That’s right, dear, it’s very Russian and very much – I hope – a hint of things to come!”
“Miz K is now seriously, seriously lost, Miz M.”
“Well then, dear partner in crime-to-be, let me enlighten you, but only after another vodka, and this time, and only this time, let’s have our vodka straight!” The two triumphantly threw back several shots of iced vodka from a fresh bottle which Kookie had hurriedly collected from the fridge. Dabbing her lips delicately with Mike’s No Shit! note, Miranda leant back in her chair. “This is what we are going to do.”
It was only five minutes later that Kookie Kombuis was heard to shriek in her deep contralto, “Miranda Maracona, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, you never fail to amaze me but this time you truly take the biscuit!”
“Which reminds me of dinner and is our cue to get ready.”
“Surely you can’t be hungry again, Miranda, my sweet,” said Kookie with definite disapproval. “Why, we’ve only just finished lunch.”
“Your referral to a biscuit, dear. Which immediately makes me think a dog biscuit, which leads me on to kennel and therefore Betina! Without a doubt our cue!”
* * *
Miranda, dressed in a bright pink spangled cocktail frock and swathed in the borrowed pink mink, shimmied, arm in arm with Kookie, into the marbled splendor of the Ritz’s lobby. Kookie, not to be outdone by her partner, was squeezed into a similar bright yellow creation (representing the gold of the flag) and draped in a second borrowed mink for the evening. Unable to find a suitable yellow “fun fur,” she had settled for one in lilac. “Far better,” Miranda had assured her with an evil smile. Smiling even more broadly she could not resist the final sting. “Not only does it match your lipstick and shoes, dearest, but it definitely prevents you from looking like some demented black and yellow bumblebee!”
Ignoring the jibe, Kookie responded with a stiff toss of her much-lacquered wig. “So? The Ritz always gives this Kookie girl a buzz!” She gave a startled elderly male hotel guest a dazzling, neon-like smile, before giving a showbizzy wave to a couple standing by the steps to the Palm Court. “Hiv!” she yodeled. “Yoohoo, Hiv!” She squeezed Miranda’s arm (the other was waving in an even more flamboyant greeting). “If that divine creature alongside Hiv is Princey-boy, your sister is about to positively c-u-m in her Janets!”
“My God,” whispered Miranda throatily. “I’m joining the floodgates. Princey-boy – and that must be him – is more than divine. He’s totally halcyon.”
“You and your way with words, Miz M, at times are too much.”
The two sashayed in a swirl of colored mink and spangles over to the two waiting men. If young Prince Igor was even the most remotely taken aback by the two towering transvestites approaching them, he showed no reaction but greeted the duo with an impish smile. Henry, looking very suave and distingué in an immaculate suit tailored by Gieves and Hawkes, greeted the two with outstretched arms (contrary to Kookie Kombuis’s unkind putdown, Hiv was definitely more Clooney than Des).
“My two favorite ladies,” Hiv chuckled in his rich, deep baritone. “As glamorous and as outrageous as ever. You never let me down.” He kissed both on their proffered cheeks – Hiv luckily stood at a competitive six foot four – and turned to the still-smiling young man standing alongside him. “And may I present to you His Royal Highness, Prince Igor Pisskossovitch of Bejesustan.”
“Your Highness,” dimpled Miranda, dropping into a deep curtsey.
Kookie, determined not to be outdone, dropped into an even deeper curtsey, adding the immortal words, “Your Holiness.”
A snigger from Miranda caused Kookie to give a small, puzzled frown as she stood up again, adjusting her mink which looked as if it was attempting to fall through the floor.
“Sir, may I present to you Miss Miranda Maracona and Miss Kookie Kombuis, the two charming owners of the legendary M K Love Agency.”
“Ladies.” Prince Igor moved forward and, taking each in turn by their gigantic gloved hands, kissed their hands, adding, “I am deeply honored,” in a soft, soothing tenor. He smiled up at Miranda. “I understand there are two more guests due, but shall we go to our table and wait for them there? I have a bottle of your favorite champagne – Cristal, so Henry tells me – waiting for us, and I do think the restaurant so much more intimate than the noisy, touristy Palm Court, don’t you? May I?” He held out his arm to Miranda and nodded to Hiv to do the same for Kookie.
Smiling up again at a beaming Miranda, the young man continued, “I am so very flattered you changed an important business engagement to join me this evening.” Miranda could not help but roll her eyes heavenwards to the heavily decorated ceiling.
Prince Igor stopped by the large, round, candlelit table, which was laid for six. “Miss Miranda, you are here on my right, and please, Miss Kombuis, you are to sit on my left.” He pointed to two small packages placed centrally on their place settings. Kookie’s eyes almost ping-ponged at the easily recognizable Tiffany wrapping. “For us?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“If you mean for the two loveliest ladies in the room, yes.” Igor gestured to the two waiters standing behind their respective chairs. Immediately Miranda and Kookie were helped to be seated. Igor pointed to the chair opposite him. “Henry, I am placing you there, and our other two guests on either side of you.”
He smiled boyishly at an entranced Miranda. “Miss Miranda, please. Open your little token of welcome. A Bejesustan tradition when one first meets an honored guest and future friend.”
“Oh, Highness,” breathed Miranda as she tore at the packaging with her scarlet talons.
“Oh, Holiness,” breathed Kookie as she did the same.
“But it’s divine!” Miranda stared at Igor with total disbelief. She picked up the diamond brooch from the case. “Princey, it’s too, too beautiful, and you shouldn’t have! I love it! Love it! Love it!”
Meanwhile, a repeat performance was taking place on the young prince’s left-hand side. With a broad smile, Kookie turned to the bemused young man. “Oh, Princey –” the name was now out in the open and would be Igor’s for ever – “would you do me the honor of pinning this piece of magic onto my dress.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I will be honored to pin the brooches onto both of your dresses.” Prince Igor obligingly did as requested and, task complete, smiled up at each in turn. “And now, a glass of champagne, to celebrate both my delicate pinning of your little trinkets and also our very happy meeting.”