Ivoria by Tanith Lee (uplifting novels .txt) 📕

and Tuse. So sure of themselves, so rude. If Qirri had been running the show she would have slipped something in their food. See how haughty and cliquey they would be with a touch of poisoning. She would not have minded doing the same for the bloody Czechoslovak prat, not to mention the Heineborgs, who were also coming up tonight. She visualised all five of them writhing and puking, and smiled. Forbidden pleasures, of course. Qirri would not indulge such a whim, here. She would not want to jeopardise her happy little arrangement with Joss. He was definitely going loopy. When she returned from the ‘view’, he had just been sitting in the big room they called the library, staring out of the window at the trees. He said nothing about his son’s having appeared. Had he even known who Nick was? Qirri felt no urge to remind him.

She had had to have sex quickly with Stephanos, too, when she came back this afternoon. He had demanded it, as if jealous of her going off with Nick. It was not a great session, no time. He could also be clumsy, Stepho, and sometimes she was afraid he might mark her face, for there was no space here to hide visible injuries till they healed. She had rarely ever been permanently marked anywhere. Just a scatter of small scars, over the years. She liked her scars. When Stephanos prodded into her she imagined Laurence, that time with the old lighter, and came in seconds, appeasing or flattering her Greek lover. She always thought of the things she really liked, when she had to go with a man who did not play her game, or played it inadequately, but whom she must, for one reason or another, gratify and convince. She had thought of Laurence too, in London, when Nick made love to her. But there had been the other danger as well, remote as it might be, which proved quite a powerful trigger. Very successful. All that with Nick was quite a laugh. And the previous time, with Amir. Although on that occasion she had already been really turned on, fantasising what would almost definitely happen to Nick - whom, then, she had still not met - because of the stuff she had told Amir down in the bar, just before they came upstairs to finish the evening.

Despite using actual facts to incite Laurence often, (as when she revealed her mother to be also his), Qirri had decided she almost certainly would never risk telling him all that she had set in motion for Nick. Laurence claimed to detest Nick, and had not minded in the least anything else Qirri had done or would do. But brothers… you could not be sure. She would be a fool to chance it. Which, in the very end, might prove to be the ace card, the climax to her ploys, her game - irresistible. Not yet, however. Maybe not ever, if she had any sense.

It was Laurence who, in describing Nick’s gigolo/escort role, had mentioned some of the names he had read in Nick’s appointments diary.

Sonia Daforian, located in this way, was later put so well to use, if mostly off-stage, as an ‘intro’ to Nick. But one name from the book had fascinated Laurence. “She must be an Arab - from the Middle East, or India, perhaps, Pakistan.”

“Or Britain,” Qirri had said.

The first name of the woman was Jasmina, with the abbreviation or pet-name Jazz in brackets. The woman’s second name, which Qirri took great care to memorise - even though Laurence could not quite recall its spelling - presently assisted Qirri when she searched the web to see what, if anything, existed on this female.

Something did. Jasmina was one of those platinum card standards who also have websites and write blogs. Qirri found the blog, which concerned only business fashion and self-promo, both for Jazz and her company. To Qirri, deadly. But a link on the site took her to the firm, which itself traded under the name of Eastern: West.

On this site there was far weightier promotion, and an Arabian Nights Market of clothes, jewellery, materials and furniture of the most extreme ethnic glamour, carefully bowdlerised for a dumbed-down popular non-ethnic palate.

Qirri also found there various pictures and side notes. She found a shot of one of the company directors, a handsome youngish man with, on his arm, the same attractive Jazz-Jasmina from Jazz’s own blog. It seemed they were engaged, these two. A long engagement, to fit their busy business world. One day there would be a full-scale wedding in some more suitable land - sun, heat, joy - scarlet, indigo.

Qirri persuaded (or coerced) a couple of people she still kept up with at the TV studios, to help her break through Eastern: West’s organisational layers and make a contact. She did not get quite to the top, but she did reach a top PA - Amir.

Qirri inquired of Amir if Mr Khal, (Jazz’s fiancé), would consent to an interview for a programme Qirri was hoping to produce for BBC 2. Amir was very cautious. What sort of programme? Qirri explained, sweetly, diffidently, temptingly, inventively, giving everything the sort of spin she had heard others give their selective piles of crap. Additionally she offered to send a small, also partly invented, profile of herself to Eastern: West, which would include, although she did not say so, a stunning photo. By then, unlike the cowed spotty kid of fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, Qirri had great faith in the ability of her looks. Generally her confidence was well-founded. Only one day after the CV must have arrived with Amir’s emails, he got in touch. Why not meet? He could give no guarantee that Mr Khal would agree to anything, but maybe if Qirri, (at this time Kit), outlined her ideas to Amir more fully, he could try, himself, to see if Khal would be willing. Amir evidently already was. He was so