Luke Jennings - Codename Villanelle

“We all do,” says Villanelle. “And women, too.”

Mikki smiles. “I’m glad you came,” she murmurs, running a finger down Villanelle’s black silk qipao dress. “This is Vivienne Tam, isn’t it? It’s lovely.”

Villanelle mirrors Mikki’s smile and compliments her on her own outfit. At the same time, she’s running a security check, scanning the club for anything or anyone out of place. For the nondescript figure in the shadows. The eyes that look away too quickly. The face that doesn’t fit.

Her attention is snagged by a willowy figure in a white halter-top and miniskirt. Mikki follows Villanelle’s gaze and sighs. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Who let the dogs out?”

“Pretty girl,” says Villanelle.

“Girl? Up to a point. That’s Janie Chou, one of Alice Mao’s ladyboys.”

“Who’s Alice Mao?”

“She owns this club. In fact she owns this building. She’s one of the richest women in Shanghai, thanks to the sex-trade.”

“Obviously quite a businesswoman.”

“That’s one way of putting it. She’s certainly not the sort of person you want to get on the wrong side of. But let me get you a drink. The watermelon Martinis are fabulous.”

“And fabulously strong, I bet.”

“Relax, sweetie,” says Mikki. “Have fun .”

As the other woman joins the crush at the small art deco bar, behind which an elegant young person is shaking cocktails, Villanelle allows herself to be swept along by a gesticulating crowd of young Chinese men, all designer-dressed to within an inch of their lives.

“I don’t think you have what they want,” says a soft voice at her side. “But I might have what you want.”

Villanelle looks into the pretty, upturned eyes of Janie Chou. “And what’s that?”

“Full girlfriend experience? Kissing on the mouth, lots of nice sucking and fucking, then afterwards I cook for you?”

“Perhaps not tonight. I’ve had a killing day.”

Janie leans in close, so that Villanelle can smell the jasmine flowers in her hair. “I got crabs,” she whispers.

Villanelle raises an eyebrow.

“No, silly! In my fridge, not my lady-garden! Hairy crabs. Very expensive.”

Mikki approaches with two brimming Martini glasses and hands one to Villanelle, pointedly ignoring Janie. “Someone I want you to meet,” she says, taking Villanelle’s arm and steering her away.

“What are hairy crabs?”

“A local delicacy,” says Mikki. “Unlike that little prostitute.”

She introduces Villanelle to a handsome young Malaysian man in a seersucker suit. “This is Howard,” she says, clearly anxious for Villanelle’s approval. “Howard, meet Astrid.”

They shake hands, and Villanelle summons the details of her cover story. Astrid Fécamp, twenty-seven-year-old columnist for Bilan21 , a French-language investment newsletter. Like all her legends, this one has been very carefully constructed. Should anyone care to investigate Mademoiselle Fécamp online, they will discover that she has been a contributing editor of Bilan21 for two years, and specialises in petrochemical futures.

But Howard is too busy lavishing compliments on Mikki to concern himself with such minutiae. “Fuchsia!” he breathes, standing back to admire her Hervé Léger cocktail dress. “The perfect colour for you.”

Privately, Villanelle thinks the colour a disaster. Against her pale ivory complexion it makes Mikki look like Howard’s mother. But perhaps that’s what Howard likes.

“So what do you do?” Villanelle asks. “Are you in the fashion business?”

“Not as such. I have a concept spa in Xintiandi.”

“It’s heaven,” Mikki breathes. “There’s a rock garden and an Evian ice fountain and Buddhist monks to align your chakras and do your hair.”

“Sounds fabulous. I’m sure my chakras are all shot to fuck.”

“Well then.” Howard smiles. “You must come visit.”

As soon as she can decently extract herself, Villanelle leaves them alone. Circulating, Martini glass in hand, she soon finds herself face to face with the sharks again. And, moments later, with Janie Chou.

“Come with me,” Janie says, her features soft in the lunar glow of the tank. “Someone wanna meet you.”

“Who?”

“Come.” Her slim hand takes Villanelle’s.

In a dim-lit alcove, a woman is sitting alone, scrolling through the messages on her phone. She’s Eurasian, and when she looks up to dismiss Janie with a casual sweep of one hand, Villanelle sees that she has eyes of the palest glass-green.

“Janie’s right,” says the woman. “You’re beautiful. Won’t you sit down?”

Villanelle inclines her head in acceptance. From the woman’s proprietorial manner she guesses that this is Alice Mao.

“So. Do you like my club?”

“It’s… fun. Things could happen here.”

“Trust me, things do.” Amusement touches the glass-green eyes. “Will you have some tea? One of those Martinis is quite enough, in my experience.”

“That would be nice. My name is Astrid, by the way.”

“It suits you. Mine, as you know, is Alice. What is your occupation, Astrid?”

“Financial forecasting. I write for an investors’ newsletter.”

Alice Mao frowns. “Do you now?”

“Yes.” Villanelle holds her gaze. “I do.”

“I’ve met a lot of finance people in my time, Astrid, and none of them is remotely like you.”

“So what am I like?”

“On the basis of our brief acquaintance, I’d say you’re rather like me.”

Villanelle smiles, allowing Alice’s cool regard to flood her veins. Something in the other woman’s features, the way the taut line of her cheekbone softens into the curve of her chin, stirs her. She knows that such feelings are dangerous, but there are times when the secrecy and the almost feral caution with which she has to conduct her life become unbearable.

Alice glances at her phone. She stands, her midnight-blue dress rippling with the same underwater gleam as the sharks. “Follow me.”

She leads Villanelle to a door, and a lift. The noise and the music die, there’s a dizzying ascent, and Villanelle follows Alice into a rooftop apartment as dimly lit as the club. There’s a folding gold-leaf screen, and shadowy contemporary paintings on the walls, but the room is dominated by a dramatic expanse of plate-glass window. Far below them is the city, its sprawling glitter made vague by a shroud of smog.

“The whore of Asia. That’s what they used to call Shanghai. And it’s still true. This apartment, the club, this building… All paid for by sex. Tea?” She indicates a spotlit side table. “It’s Silver Needle from Fuding Province. I think you’ll like it.”

Villanelle sips the pale infusion. It tastes of fragrant, rainswept hillsides.

“I could make you very rich,” says Alice. “I have clients who would pay a great deal of money for a night with you.”

Villanelle looks out into the night. She can smell the other woman’s scent, and her hair. “And you, Alice. What would you pay for me? Right here and now?”

Alice looks at her, her smile unwavering. “Fifty thousand kuai .”

“A hundred thousand,” says Villanelle.

Alice tilts her head thoughtfully, then steps round to face Villanelle. Green eyes meet grey. “For a hundred thousand kuai ,” she says, undoing the silk-covered button at Villanelle’s collar, “I would expect a lot.”

Villanelle nods, and stands there, unmoving, as Alice’s fingers move down her qipao dress. She closes her eyes, feels the silk lifted from her shoulders, and her underwear removed. Naked, she feels the floor tilt beneath her feet. She tries to speak Alice’s name but it comes out as Anna, and when she tries to whisper “fuck me,” what she actually says is “kill me.”