Alek Popov - Mission London

“Yeah, the Head of Make-up for the RSC,” he answered casually.

“Yeah, right,” she threw back at him.

Barry looked at her with obvious pleasure and said, “Close your eyes.”

She obeyed.

“And you’re not to look,” he warned her. “Otherwise you’ll ruin the effect.”

“I won’t. Get on with it!”

Barry carefully put her hair up in a net, then put some sort of wig on her head — a feeling that she could never mistake for any other, and which she did not particularly like. He pulled it this way and that and then told her to open her eyes.

She shouted in surprise. She instinctively went to remove the wig but he caught her wrists and lightly, almost tenderly, pushed them down.

“I wonder,” said Barry, “if anyone has ever told you how much you resemble the late Lady Diana Spencer?”

Katya stared dumbfounded at her new face. “No,” she whispered.

“I’m telling you!”

“I feel horrible,” Katya confessed. “She’s dead.”

“I’m not so sure any more,” Barry shook his head.

From the depths of the mirror, the face of the Princess of Wales regarded them in surprise, with a hint of repulsion, as though not wanting to accept the fact of this cheap resurrection.

“Stand up!” he ordered.

Katya stood up.

“Walk!”

She started to walk from one end of the room to the other. The miracle had happened.

“Take this,” Barry, gave her a small flat black handbag. “A Lady never walks with her hands empty.”

Then his face suddenly soured. “Take that off!”

“Why?” she asked, looking at her nice plastic watch, with its big face.

“SHE would never wear such a thing,” Barry spat. “The Princess had only the finest things.”

Wow, crazy bastard, she thought to herself; she pulled her hand through the elastic strap and let him put a slender, golden ladies wristwatch in its place. He had thought of everything!

“That’s better,” Barry sighed.

Were there no real British girls for that purpose? Katya wondered, as he contemplated her in speechless admiration. Now he’ll pull it out and start to masturbate, she tried to guess at what was to come. That, however, did not happen and she continued to stand awkwardly in front of him, clutching the elegant handbag. Really, how come no one had ever noticed the resemblance, why had she herself not seen it? Was she blind? And how on earth had Kamal Dalali missed the opportunity to profit from that chance: to show the Princess naked?!

“Time to go,” said Barry business-like, and clapped his hands. “Let’s move.”

“Where?” she asked, frightened.

“We’ll drive around a little. Do you like to be chauffeured?”

“I can’t go out like this!” she protested.

“You’ll wear this.” He gave her a thin black headscarf and dark glasses.

Katya obeyed unenthusiastically. “Christ! Everyone will recognise me!” she exclaimed, looking in the mirror.

“You?!” Barry raised his eyebrows. “Who on earth will recognise you?”

“I meant her.” Katya was confused.

“Good to see you live your role,” he chuckled. “Otherwise, everything goes to hell. Don’t forget: he’s expecting a princess, and not some screeching street-trash.”

“Who?” she trembled.

“The boss,” explained Barry, unmoved. “Look, this is only a casting session. He’ll judge whether you’ll do for the role or not. Do what he says. In my opinion, you’ve got it, but he has the final say. I just want you to know that whether or not you get the part, you’ll receive £100, for your participation.”

“Very kind,” she said. “And my clothes?”

“I’ll bring them, don’t worry.” Barry quickly gathered up her things into a black bag.

Katya crossed the small foyer of the Athenaeum, followed by Barry, the big black bag slung over his shoulder. Several people turned to look at her. The porter’s jaw hung stupidly agape. A long, black, Lincoln limousine was waiting out front. The chauffeur, in a faceless grey uniform, was holding the door open. She slid into the twilit interior of the car. Her escort installed himself in the front seat.

Once her eyes adjusted to the half-darkness, she realised that she was not alone. At the other end of the seat there was a strange individual, with a bowler hat and long black overcoat. Beneath the brim of the hat there was a lively round face with ruddy cheeks. He turned his head towards her and chuckled playfully. “Your Royal Highness,” he enunciated grandiloquently. “I am honoured to be able to offer you my hospitality. Would you care for some champagne?”

He leaned forward, took a frosted bottle from the mini-bar and gave it to Barry. Then took out two flutes and a tin of caviar. She now noticed his long, yellow little-fingernail; it looked like a coffee spoon. The cork left the bottle with a cautious sigh. A slight white wisp floated up out of the neck.

The little curtains of the limousine were fully closed. Katya had no idea where they were going. The car stopped and started frequently, which led her to believe that they were still in the centre. But she always liked to know where she was and such a situation bothered her. She was asked most-politely to remove her dress and she complied. She felt silly: totally nude, in only stockings and shoes, champagne in hand. It was not a particularly new experience for her to act in this manner, but in spite of that she still felt somewhat uncomfortable. Maybe it was the fact that she was in the middle of traffic, separated from the outside world by only a door and a thin curtain that led her to feel that way? What if they decided, of a sudden, to throw her out? They did not seem to have any such intentions, however, at least not at this stage. And what’s more, the boss’s interest in her seemed to have lessened as soon as she removed her clothes. Now he looked more like a bored husband, taking his wife to some society party. From time to time his gaze fell on her and he would raise his glass and encourage her to have more caviar.

“You must eat it all,” he had told her at the beginning.

The tin held 150g. It seemed only a little, but with each further mouthful, she realised that that was not the case. It was lukewarm, greasy and heavy. The feeling that she was eating some kind of delicacy diminished and gradually gave way to the feeling that she was swallowing some kind of medicine designed to grease and loosen up her innards. She swallowed a healthy gulp of champagne. Some roe dropped from the spoon and fell on her breasts. He watched her: not so much lustfully as curiously. There were no napkins and no one offered her any. She scooped of the roe with her finger and licked it. Fuck it!

Warm air licked her body like a fine silk veil, blowing from the unseen heating vents. She was tipsy, or perhaps vaguely horny. They had been stationary for some time, most likely stuck in a traffic-jam. She tugged at the curtain to see where they were. She caught a view of the parapet of a bridge, the brown waves of the Thames and another bridge in the distance.

“What are you doing?” shouted the boss. “Put the curtain down immediately!”

Then he lay back on the seat and started to look at the upholstery.

“You haven’t finished your caviar. Eat up!” he added softly.

Now I’ll have diarrhoea for sure! she thought to herself, scraping the bottom of the tin with the silver spoon. The bottle was also empty. The man appeared to be deep in thought. They had made it off the bridge (maybe Waterloo?!) and were now on the south bank of the Thames. Here the traffic was less dense and the chauffeur made better speed. Katya had the feeling that they were driving down a wide, multi-lane road. Then they turned suddenly. The car slowed and stopped. The boss looked at her and smiled, “It was a pleasure to be driven with you, Your Highness. See you soon.” He nodded ironically and got out quickly, slamming the door.