Carrie took the opportunity to look around. Simon lived well. His home consisted of two large terraces with the adjoining wall knocked out. It was all open plan: big spaces, high ceilings, pools of halogen lighting. Down one end was a syc, photographer-speak for a big concave egg, surrounded by expensive camera gear — the work space. Up the other end was a chef’s kitchen, all stainless steel and European brand names. A Bang & Olufsen sound system, as much modern sculpture as hi-fi, stood beside a long, low, L-shaped leather couch and a low Balinese coffee table carved with Hindu motifs, design, photographic and fashion magazines scattered artfully about. She looked for the bedroom, a tingling sensation between her legs. Was it the drug or the memory of the party…? She found it at the top of a set of stairs artfully built into a wall; the individual steps had no railing and seemed to hang unsupported in the air.
The bedroom overlooked the studio. On the walls were black and white portraits of beautiful women and various, perfectly proportioned nudes in erotic poses. ‘Your trophy room?’ she called out.
‘I don’t see your photo up there yet,’ he said quietly, holding her from behind, slipping his hand inside the front of her dress and cupping her breast.
His presence surprised her as she hadn’t heard his footsteps. ‘Does that mean I haven’t acquired “trophy” status yet?’ she said, moving away from him, but wanting instead to turn around, unzip his fly and take him in her mouth — if only to prove that she could be every bit as bad and unpredictable as him.
‘We’ll see. We’re going to have a night you and your girlfriend won’t forget. When’s she coming, by the way? And what’s her name? Is she hot?’
‘Questions, questions. When’s your friend coming? Is he hot?’ she countered.
‘Oh, got a call just before you arrived. Problems with the ex. He can’t make it, so…it’ll just be the three of us.’ She looked down and saw that an old shearer’s table, the one old piece in the room, had been set for three.
Carrie wanted to believe him, but it felt too set up. Just the three of us… And then the doorbell rang.
‘Her name’s Anna,’ said Carrie, calling after him as he ran to answer it.
Simon took the steps two at a time and reached the front door, picking up a flute of champagne from the kitchen on the way, before the bell rang again. ‘Ah, you must be Anna,’ he said as she walked in, exchanging her coat for the glass. ‘Carrie’s here. Now we can par-tay.’
Carrie noted that Anna was wearing her prowling attire: a sheer, backless dress — very short — high-heeled shoes and a long leather coat. ‘Ooh,’ said Anna with a giggle as she stepped lightly into the room, her heels clattering on the parquet floor. ‘Nice place.’
Carrie could see from Simon’s body language that he was also impressed by what he saw. ‘I’m told it’s a bit sterile,’ he said in an attempt to be dismissive.
‘I like it,’ said Anna looking around.
‘Hello, girlfriend,’ Carrie said. She gave her friend a hug and a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re late.’Anna was always late.
Simon’s mobile rang. ‘Alright, that must be the courier,’ he said, rubbing his hands together before opening the text message. ‘Yeah, waiting out front.’ Carrie glanced at Anna with the slightest wrinkle between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Courier? Simon grabbed a wad of cash off the kitchen bench and placed his hand on Carrie’s arse as he kissed her. ‘Back in a second, babydoll,’ he said in her ear. ‘Keep it warm. Give Anna a line.’ The door closed behind him, leaving Carrie and Anna on their own.
‘He’s cute,’ said Anna, putting down her empty flute.
‘He’s mine,’ said Carrie, half jokingly, narrowing her eyes.
‘Did I hear the word “line” mentioned?’ Anna said, ignoring the warning.
‘There’s something for you on the tile over there.’ Carrie pointed at the side table. ‘Simon’s friend pulled out. Looks like it’s just the three of us.’
Anna picked up the straw and snorted the line in one fluid, practised movement. She dipped a finger in the mound of white powder and then ran it around her gums. She shivered. ‘Good quality. Oh well, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.’ The Bang & Olufsen changed CDs automatically, swapping blues for Nina Simone as Anna took herself on a tour of the surroundings. Carrie sat on the couch with a fresh glass of champagne, closed her eyes and thought of sex with Simon.
Moments later, a key sounded in the lock and Simon swaggered through the front door holding a little bag of blue-white powder high, in triumph. ‘Don’t crowd me, ladies,’ he said. ‘There’s enough for all.’
‘Do you do portraits, Simon?’ Anna called out from the bedroom, admiring the work on the walls.
‘No. The pay’s ratshit. Do pack shots mainly, for ad agencies.’ He reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out a plastic container. ‘Carrie,’ he said, beckoning her over with a finger. ‘Check this out.’
Carrie got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen. The bag Simon had collected now sat on the bench. It contained a fine, brilliant white powder. Not coke. It was something else. Simon opened the container. Inside was a plastic bag full of new disposable hypodermic syringes, a small bottle of saline solution, a professional tourniquet and sterilising swabs. The complete kit. ‘Have you ever done scag, babydoll?’ he asked.
Carrie shook her head. ‘Heroin? No way. Never,’ she said emphatically.
‘I have,’ said Anna, breezing into the kitchen. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘You bitch. You never told me that,’ said Carrie, surprised.
‘Look, Carrie, all the negative hype about heroin? It’s just bullshit put out to scare people,’ Simon said, tapping a measure of powder into a stainless-steel eggcup and adding saline to it.
‘It is amazing,’ said Anna, repeating herself. ‘And I knew you’d disapprove. That’s why I never told you.’
‘This stuff is first class,’ pronounced Simon. ‘You believe only half of what the dealers tell you, of course — there’s always some sales pitch or other. But this vitamin H looks like the real McCoy,’ he said, heating the underside of the eggcup with a lighter flame to cook the solution. ‘You want to go first, Anna?’ said Simon, sucking the fluid into a thin syringe.
‘Sure,’ she said, holding out her arm. Simon put the syringe between his teeth while he wrapped the tourniquet around her arm just above the elbow joint, and tightened it. He found a vein in the crook of her arm, tapped it, then wiped it with a swab. The injection was administered an instant later while Anna turned away. ‘Hey, you’re good, honey,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even feel that.’
‘Your turn, babydoll,’ said Simon, preparing the next hit with a clean hypodermic.
Carrie shook her head. ‘No way, Jose,’ she said, not altogether convincingly. ‘You okay, Anna?’ she asked. Her friend had sagged against the kitchen bench.