Moulin Jewels (part 2)

Previously, on 'The Epilogue of Eddie Stardust' …

Eddie, stop this ridiculous Americanisation of your story. The reader can scroll back to the previous post if they wish to know what happened before, although why they would is beyond me. Honestly I despair. - IGOR

* * *

I turned the corner, anticipation boiling within me. From the way men were winking at me, I couldn't lose(1). A few more steps and there she stood; my lover, my mistress – The Moulin Rouge. I passed through the modern doors with a tinge of disappointment. The stunning art nouveau entrance I remembered from my warm life was long gone, replaced in the wake of some new trend or other. I remained undeterred. My heels clicked as I swished my hips, pouting as I approached the box office.

“I wish to converse with the manager,” I breathed, my husky voice making the plain Jane behind the counter shudder. I was irresistible. I knew it. She knew it and soon, the world would know it(2). My name would be in lights, my body would sparkle(3) and I would be the burlesque can can dancer I had always dreamed I could be.

But first, I had to win over the boss. That wouldn't be hard, although he might be by the time I was done with him.

A hinge creaked. A door slammed.

“Thierry Beaugarçon.” a delicious voice announced. I turned around. Thierry Beaugarçon. A wonderful name. It described him so well with his neat, honey coloured ponytail, tight body and chiselled good looks.

“Edwina,” I fluttered my false eyelashes flirtatiously.

“And what can I do for you, Edwina?” The sound of his mouth forming my name told me what I needed to know. I had entranced him. I just needed to seal the deal – whatever it took.

* * *

It didn’t take us long. My body twinkled under the dim light(4). We were behind his desk, my hands at his belt. My knees rubbed against the rough carpet, but it didn’t matter. He tried to assure me that he wasn’t like this, that this wasn’t who he was. I hushed him and leant in for a kiss. It pleased me to see his eyes roll back, to have him in thrall. Spasms racked him and my hold over him increased. I wove my spell delicately, with nibbles and kisses, an artist’s brushstroke, broad, narrow. His firm hands gripped my cheeks. I didn’t mind. His thick fingers around my jaw only heightened my sense of achievement.

“Let me show you what I can do.” I told him. Hot, salty, moisture. I licked my lips. He shuddered again and I rose unerringly(5). With a backwards wink, I sauntered out of the office. The stage was mine. His eyes never left my hips. Thierry Beaugarçon. My manager. My smile drew stares. Private, sly, they only suspected. I purred to the plain Jane, hoping for a more private audience. I was getting thirsty again but first, there were more important things to attend to.

A few moments later, clutching the papers Beaugarçon had provided, I located the stage door. It was not what I had expected. Damned romanticism. The nasty beige formica door was set into a wooden door frame, from which chunks of blood red gloss paint had been chipped, revealing layers of lurid blue beneath. A horrible sign was screwed to the door bearing the word “Stage entrance” in a font which surely died along with the sixties. I pushed the door open, recoiling as a decade of finger grease polluted my fine skin. I needed to wash my hands. Come to think of it, I needed to clean my teeth as well.

Beyond the door, I nearly vomited. The door opened to the hallway which time forgot. Purple and orange paisley adorned the walls and crimson was just visible beneath a thick layer of grime(6).

“Entrez!” a husky female voice summoned me. Something stirred in my loins(7). The voice emanated from the second door way on the left. I made my way to see what the voice belonged to.

* * *

Pink leotard. Body glitter. I sparkled like dew in the morn sun. Eyeliner. I emerged from the dressing room with a hesitant step. Then I straightened. My hair was curled, honey blonde. Try outs were about to begin. I drew in a deep breath. The stage awaited.

I leapt onto it. There were others, boys and girls both, but they were broken ravens to my swan. Stars of the show, nevermore(8)! I twirled and I dipped; I span and I shone. My leg long, my foot arched, I pivoted. I was a dancing queen. There was no one there but me(9).

The dances flickered.

Everything went black.

* * *

Murmurs … Smudgy colours. Greens, pinks, forms moving. Focus returned slowly like steam clearing from a mirror. I saw her face – her beautiful face.

Love. Was it? It had been so long since love had clawed at my heart with its poisonous talons. I had long since locked it in the closet of my previous, human life. Did I love her? I thought so. Sapphires sparkled beneath her full eyelashes. Glitter adorned her every feature and her fiery red hair burned a permanent mark into my heart.

“Mon Cher?” her velvety voice caressed my ears. “I am so sorry.” Her French Accent stirred my senses. Had I been alive, I would have had an embarrassing situation to deal with. “Antoine did not mean to 'it you on ze 'ed. Are you ok?” I could not speak. I was under her spell. Clichés were running through my mind on an imaginary conveyor belt(10). I couldn't help it. I stared, all thoughts of glitter, sparkles and dancing deserting me(11).

Finally, my stubborn mouth caught up with my brain. “I am tres bien, Mademoiselle. Might I ask, what is your name?”

A quizzical expression and an eyebrow twitch. “Gabrielle.”

“I am Edwina.” I responded. Edwina. The name stuck in my throat. She smiled.

My thoughts ran amok. Her lips moved as she pronounced each syllable. My name sounded like liquid silk from her mouth. Even in undeath, my own was dry. My heart lurched. Her slyness left me breathless. I wasn’t sure what it was about her. Her step as she trod towards me, her legs, her hips, her belly, her bust, her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her… her mouth halted a hairsbreadth from my own. Maybe she reminded me of … her … I saw myself reflected back in her endless blue. I glimpsed her soul.

I gasped.

Her fingers had coiled around me and her hold made me throb. Fresh blood in my system coursed to all the wrong places(12).

She repeated my name and that coy, slightly arched brow made me whimper. She inched closer. I couldn’t scurry back, only forwards. Her voice in my ear was ecstasy; my name held me enthralled.

“Gabrielle.” My voice was a croak, a sigh. My mind added: an angel. An angel of fire. Sapphire fire(13). Could I be in paradise? What passed for paradise in this unending mortal hell?

She broke away with an effortless turn and an even more effortless shrug. Her fine shoulders were glorious to behold. Living art, flawless and perfect in the very best way. The light, her light… how had she known? I followed her unthinkingly. I lost all spatial awareness, all my senses convulsing as they fused to a single point: her. I heard the gentle, steady pulse of her blood, the roar of my own, siphoned from my victims. She was everything a woman could be. A diva, a goddess… she would be mine. My Gabrielle.

Without warning, my reverie was interrupted. With fearsome purpose driving her every perfect, sexy movement. Gabrielle disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain. Cautiously, I approached the soft fabric, reaching out my hand to reveal what lay on the other side.

“Oi! What you doin?” a broad London accent shocked me. Shaking, I dropped the curtain and span, cursing whoever had interrupted me. “There's a show on. Don't touch the flamin' curtains. Audience'll see yer. Boss'll kill yer.”

Mixed emotions created a muddy well in the pit of my stomach. Excitement at discovering my stage pooled soft and sticky, creating a melange à trois(14) with heady lust for Gabrielle and sticky, black anger for the savage voiced idiot that had ruined my moment. I would bide my time. Everything I desired would be mine. If the staff of the Moulin Rouge wished to remain warm, they would co-operate. Something told me that I would not be hungry for a long time.

I walked away, pouting at my new best enemy. He was young, foolish. Probably had dreams of grandeur. The broom in his hand told me that success, for him, was a long way off. I smirked and turned on my heel, making my way back to the dressing room to await my first rehearsal.

He followed me. To shoo me off, or just to make sure I was far from the stage I wasn’t sure. It was his hide as much as mine if he allowed someone to slip beneath the curtain. I thought of my sapphire fire, my Gabrielle. Mere seconds and I longed for her; time, this strange concept, seconds as dewdrops in the sun, days as a blink and moments immortal. I turned and smiled at him. He should have stepped back; instead, he stepped forwards, startled, but glaring. I smiled and he smiled back unwillingly. Oh, how unwillingly. Mine was a smile of apology, of understanding… his mirroring mine. My raised eyebrow looked beyond him, to the dressing room on side. Everyone was too concerned with the stage: getting there, being there, or stopping others from getting there. My dream, his passion, his dream, my passion. It didn’t matter what he thought, how he felt; he was drawn to me. Me, the unknown star yet to rise in this night’s sky. My hand rested on his broom; his tightened, then lowered. Without bothering to look, I pivoted, knowing he followed…

The immortal moment.

(1) You are such an arrogant tosspot. What makes you think you're God's gift to men … women … trolls … dragons … pixies, swamp donkeys and so on? As if you'd really convince anyone you're a female with that seven o'clock shadow?

(2) Seriously? See (1)

(3) You and your bloody sequins. Gah!

(4) Shall I get you a unicorn to go with that, Princess Twinkle Toes.

(5) Why do you insist on making me put my name to this filth? You disgust me. The only hot, salty moisture this image draws from me are tears, rolling down the inside of my eyes.

(6) What is perverse obsession with casting aspersions on the interior décor of my home, by including it in your 'memoirs'? I hate you. See (1).

(7) Early stages of syphilis? Parasites?

(8) Really?

(9) Yeah? What about 'her'? Still lost in the bottom a bottle?

(10) Cliches? You? Never...

(11) Yeah? For how long?

(12) Surely not your brain?

(13) And he's back. See (11)

(14) A fruit salad?