Wild Fiction

‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said. ‘Aren’t we going to your office to sort out the contract?’
‘I have it all here,’ he said picking up a brown leather briefcase that was standing on the pavement next to him.
‘Oh?’ Rebecca said raising her eyebrows.
‘I thought we could celebrate somewhere in a more relaxed environment.’
Rebecca nodded at him. She knew what he meant and she ground her molars.
It was a small non-descript hotel set in a long white terrace. A plastic fronted sign hanging over the door read Balmor Hotel. The corner of the sign was broken and she could see through to the florescent tubes that would light the sign at night. It could have been any one of hundreds scattered around London. The receptionist’s large nose dominated his face like the oversized beak of an eagle.
‘Ah Meester Kent,’ he said in a thick Italian accent. ‘Here we are for you,’ he handed a single key to him.
‘Champagne?’ Kent said to him raising his eyebrows.
‘Moment Meester Kent,’ the man said jumping off his stool. ‘Moment, moment,’ he shouted back rushing through a side door. He reappeared a minute later with a silver bucket overflowing with ice and the neck of a champagne bottle poking out of it at an angle like an erect penis sheathed in a golden condom.
Rebecca followed Kent up the narrow staircase. She felt sick at the thought of what she was about to do. What she had to do for Genevieve to live and to make them immortal. This is the equivalent of prostitution, she thought to herself. She hated herself for the very idea. She hated the author for putting her in such a position that she had to do this.
Kent opened the door to room seventeen and stood back for her to enter. Rebecca paused at the door and looked around. The room was drab with traces of dust clinging to the corners where the dusting cloth of a lazy cleaner never ventured. The mirror on the dressing table distorted her reflection. A white cover, embossed with fleurs-de-lys, hung over the double bed like a funeral pall. She walked over to the dressing table and sat on the piano stool in front of it. Kent closed and locked the door behind them and tested the handle twice. He placed himself on the corner of the bed, his briefcase between his legs on the floor. He pulled out a sheaf of printed papers and handed them to Rebecca. She read them. It was a contract between the author and Meta Publishing.
‘You’ll have to get the author to sign those,’ Kent said to her once she had put them down.