June 4th, 1998
London, England
The sun filters through the curtains, causing the blonde-haired woman who keeps trying to hide under a mess of pillows, tangled sheets, and a warm down comforter to put a pillow over her eyes. Sneaking a peek at the clock, she notices it says eight in the morning, which is dreadfully early in her mind. Begrudgingly, she remembers it is Thursday and most people have gone to work or are on their way.
Everything is so white, she thinks to herself, her head pounding as she stumbles to the bathroom, also impeccably white and well-lit. She opens a cabinet, searching for ibuprofen, and is relieved when she finds it. The consequences of a night with Brandy Alexander, the young woman's signature drink, often included waking up in a strange white room hoping to find ibuprofen. The next step was to find clothes and hurry out before the maid arrived. It was a system the girl had perfected over years of experience, but time did not make sunshine at 8 AM any easier.
On the contrary, it is getting harder and harder to be her with each passing year, something she'd never let the world see. As far as it is concerned, she is indestructible and utterly ageless. She hopes to be remembered that way until the day she dies, and she does not plan on that being anytime soon.
Looking around the expansive white room, she realises she is not in a hotel at all, but someone's home. It is a very tastefully decorated home at that. Between the pristine whiteness and the fact that there were no obvious signs of life strewn about, she concludes that whoever lived there had a touch of OCD.
Pinning her messy blonde waves to the top of her head, the girl puts on the clothes lying on the floor---an expensive-looking red dress almost too short to be decent, matching undergarments, and a pair of shoes threatening to drop black sequins all over the OCD home. As she puts her jewelry back on, one thing she is careful not to leave behind, she rubs the smudged makeup from her eyes and lips. It will do until she gets home, and it's not as if she's planning to meet many people between here and there.
Sylvie remembers that she had a meeting at her favourite bar, Le Richoux. After it ended, she wasn't quite ready to go home. Something about quality drinks and pretty people in a place that still sported dim lighting and paintings on the wall of scenes from the 1920's---well, it causes one drink to turn into three rather easily. Of all the spots in London, the Prohibition-era bar and restaurant called Le Richoux is one of Sylvie's favourites, and she is a fixture there.
If she were anyone else, with her overly short skirts and bizarre hairpieces and jewellery, she'd be given a cool reception at a place like Le Richoux. For over 120 years, it was the "it" place designed to cater to the upper echelon of society. It s the sort of place people go for special occasions, one wall dedicated to all the couples who'd gotten engaged over a candlelit dinner at the restaurant. Sylvie often smirks at it, wondering how many of those couples actually got married and stayed that way.
During the day, Le Richoux tolerated the tourists, the bohemians, the students, and other assorted people who just wanted to say they'd been there. Once the sun set, the tradition of elitism could be see clearly. Like many old family-run businesses in London, the owners had gotten wealthy from the pretense of exclusivity.
Somehow, twenty-four-year-old Sylvie Winslow, with her devious smile and expensive tastes, had managed to slip past the pretense of exclusivity. When she thought of that, she grinned to herself, obviously the self-satisfied sort.
Sylvie remembers the previous night more clearly as she gets dressed. There was a middle-aged man who worked in finance, one who talked her ear off about the dullest subject imaginable. Once he started buying her drinks and mentioning the various committees he and his wife served on and the causes to which they donated, Sylvie realised that being impolite would burn too many bridges. Instead, she turned on her winning smile, let her hand rest on his knee, and decided to be overly polite.
Sylvie's particular collection of charm and brand of enticing politeness was one that got few rejections. The financier, Leo or Leon or something of that nature, was the type of man obviously grateful just for polite conversation. Spending time with Sylvie was a bit like deciding to get on a rollercoaster. Once the decision was made, it was impossible to turn back and the adrenaline was addictive.
Strolling out of the bedroom, she sees a well-stocked bar in a room that looks like a study. It's too early in the day, but Sylvie has admiration for those who know to decant expensive liquor into crystal properly. Whatever else Leo or Leon and his wife like to do in their spare time, they are quite obviously drinkers. Sylvie isn't at all surprised. Most people with too much money and too much to do are fond of alcohol.
Between the bottles, she sees a familiar item in her world: a long envelope with her name written on it, or at least, one of her names.
Sylvie is, by her own account, a creature of her own invention. While some know that she is Sylvie Winslow, most don't even know that much about her or if it's even true. At the Richoux and a few similar places, she is known by friends, admirers, and lovers as simply "Aphrodite".
She can't remember how Aphrodite was born, only that over time, Sylvie got more and more deeply entrenched into the persona. She even cut her long bleach-blonde hair and had it styled into a shoulder-length collection of waves and curls, reminiscent of a painting behind the bar at Le Richoux, an eye-catching of a woman from the 1920's. Sylvie, well-read and well-educated, suspected it might be a depiction of Daisy from "The Great Gatsby". Though Sylvie has a more modern look, there is still something about her that is reminiscent of the flapper era. People often see the painting, and then Sylvie, and wonder if she is the model for it.
The resemblance is uncanny, but Sylvie doesn't think of the woman in the painting as Sylvie or Daisy or any other unwitting muse. It is how she pictures Aphrodite, a creation she has now completely become.
Aphrodite always has admirers and behaves with a good deal of class, which is why Le Richoux bends over backwards for her and keeps her secrets. Often, Aphrodite wakes up in the morning with a hangover and a well-earned gift. Opening up the envelope, she reads the note:
"Dearest Aphrodite:
Meeting you was an unexpected if sinful treat. Feel free to make yourself at home, but keep in mind my wife will return at 2 PM. As much as I look forward to meeting you again, I'm definitely positive she is not.
Your new friend and admirer,
Leo "
Sylvie smiles, pouring herself a drink. After all, she has time to relax and peek about the place. Nothing cures a pounding head better than hair of the dog. Looking in the envelope again, she counts the bills left beneath the note. Two thousand pounds, which would cover her rent and basic expenses for the month if she managed to avoid shopping.
It must have been a good night, Sylvie chuckles to herself, putting the envelope into her bag and heading back into the bedroom.
Sylvie is curious about Leo, so she naturally pulls open the drawers on the bedside table. It is, of course, where people keep their dirty little secrets when they aren't used to being paranoid that their secrets will be exposed. She doesn't find anything interesting or scandalous, other than Leo is indeed married to a rather well-preserved woman in her forties named Marjorie.
Under a pile of mostly trivial items, Sylvie chuckles at the fact that even the handcuffs are trimmed with pristine white fur. She's not certain whether it's Leo or Marjorie with the problem, but clearly, the OCD is very high maintenance.
Jumping up off the bed, Sylvie heads to the closet, a walk-in space that only the very wealthy can afford in this part of town. Much like New York City and Tokyo, space is at a premium in the more popular sections of London. Those who have it pay dearly for it. Everyone else simply covets.
Sylvie, who loves nothing more than clothing and flamboyant accessories, gets lost In the closet. Judging by the collection of tuxedos and long gowns, everything Leo told her about his lifestyle was very true. The pair attended a lot of black tie events.
Her eyes fall on a large collection of handbags. Some women love clothing, some shoes, some indulge in expensive perfumes. Marjorie apparently collected handbags. Sylvie picks up a black sequined bag that matches her shoes and is large enough to hold more than a phone and a lipstick, unlike many of the bags in the collection.
Swinging it over her shoulder, she smiles at the effect. It is most definitely her style, and examining the inside, she laughs a bit when she sees it is a genuine Hermes. It must have cost nearly two thousand pounds when it was new, but it is one or two seasons old and looks long unused. Nevertheless, Sylvie suddenly feels glamorous.
An intelligent and keenly perceptive woman, Sylvie had learned the fine art of swiping little tokens that wouldn't be missed from the time she was a little girl. After a few amateur mishaps that ended in getting caught, Sylvie had become the cliché of the bored teenager and then the bored young woman who felt a rush of adrenaline from collecting almost meaningless things She didn't know if it was a kind of kleptomania or not, but acquiring new things gave her a thrill greater than booze or sex or drugs.
Breaking the rules was what made Sylvie feel alive. It was what, almost by little more than a series of fortunate events, turned Sylvie into Aphrodite.
The key to not getting caught, of course, was to only ever take things that no one would miss. It was easy to identify those things. Even the most organised person let their forgotten treasures fall to the bottom of a bag or get stuck between items in the closet. One day, the person would come across them and remember them fondly. If that never happened, it wouldn't once cross the person's mind. Sylvie was a master at accumulating things like that.
Men would recognise a favourite dress, or earrings that were bought as a gift, or even a particular fragrance. They never noticed a woman's bag, or her lipstick, or her forgotten pair of gloves.
Sylvie takes stock of Leo and Marjorie's life without touching much. They are obviously the type to know if anything has been rearranged. On the floor, an overflowing basket of discarded garments sits, looking abandoned. It is not the type of basket for socks and underthings, or well-worn t-shirts. Every item is too expensive and too carefully selected to be dropped so carelessly. The waste of frivolous wealth, Sylvie thinks, shaking her head.
She already doesn't particularly like Marjorie, whom she's never met. The picture her home paints reminds Sylvie of someone. That's why, when she spots the almost flawless white fur wrap, discarded like rubbish, Sylvie has to pick it up and put it on.
The snow white suits Sylvie, with her light blue eyes and blonde hair and lips painted dark red. Though a bit big, it manages to look like it was made that way. Sylvie cocoons her body in It is something that Aphrodite would certainly wear, in a few months, when no one would remember an item lost at the cleaners.
Taking the wrap and the bag with her, Sylvie leaves the closet looking untouched. The dresser has a fascinating looking collection of jewelry boxes and the one staple that every upper-class woman had, Chanel No 5.
Diamonds and the scent of pretty pink powder were never Sylvie's thing. She is the type who is far more dramatic than feminine. Sylvie never had much talent for playing the innocent. Instead, she plays the seductress who might have been innocent not so long ago. She is the one who might be redeemed, made into a better person, taught to feel love.
Sylvie doesn't feel love, not really. She has many friends and people know who she is. She likes admiration, and being Aphrodite certainly earns her fair share of admiration and attention. That's why, when she carefully lifts a bottle of perfume, she chooses one that's been pushed to the back. It doesn't really matter what it is. It matters that is was pushed away and neglected and unappreciated.
Whatever the treasure was, Sylvie would appreciate it.
Poison, by Christian Dior.
Sylvie laughs softly, thinking how that seems fitting, and tosses it in her own bag, along with the now empty glass. The note had said she could stay, but it was now 9:30 AM and already her curiousity had run out. Sylvie was not the kind of girl who had a large attention span. On top of that, she had a definite suspicion that at some point, she'd return to the scene of the crime. She didn't want to inflict too much damage.
Moving down the stairs as quietly as possible, Sylvie stops in the kitchen. One thing every kitchen around the world has in it is a secret stash of chocolate and Sylvie will definitely want chocolate later. It's not like they have truffles and Cadbury's lying around Le Richoux.
After being disappointed by a few cabinets that look like prominent hiding places, she uncovers the secret stash under a telephone book. No one uses a telephone book anymore, so it's a perfect place to stash the candy one does not wish to share. Sylvie will be happy she took a few bars later.
Looking at the phone book, it's obvious how the pages don't lie perfectly flat, at least to Sylvie's eye. Something was clearly hidden in the middle of the telephone book.
She hesitates, because once she pulls it out to look, it will be hard to replace exactly as it was. Sylvie's need to know things outweighs her caution.
She is aware of her jaw dropping slightly when she sees an envelope exactly like the one left for her this morning. The paper is the same, the writing is the same, even the ink is the same. This one is addressed to "Adelina".
Curious, Sylvie muses to herself. Either Leo had tried this before and chickened out, and hid the envelope in a place that would inevitably lead to divorce, or Marjorie knew about Leo's little indiscretions. Poor Adelina never got her envelope, either way.
Perhaps it was Marjorie who put out the envelopes and bankrolled her husband's hourly flings. People were odd that way.
With a shrug, Sylvie puts Adelina's envelope with her own. She has no idea what's in it, but it will be a pleasant surprise.
She feels the familiar pang of fear in her heart when she realises the envelope will inevitably be missed. However, Leo would be too embarrassed to ever mention it to Aphrodite, and he certainly wouldn't ask his wife.
Making sure she's left nothing behind, Sylvie runs out of the house, carrying perhaps ten thousand pounds of things she didn't have with her the previous night. Needless to say, she's in a rather big hurry to flag down a cab, and is relieved when one passes by two minutes later. Sylvie practically jumps in.
"Morning, miss. Where can I take you?" She almost laughs, noticing he has the subtle smirk that says he's used to driving wealthy women and paid companions home to spare them the walk of shame.
Sylvie is a bit different from all the others. She chooses the walk, keeping the cabbie from knowing her address, should the matter of the missing items ever be a problem. Either that, or Sylvie subconsciously enjoys luxuriating in shame.
"Le Richoux, please." She offers the statement politely, a smile in her silvery blue eyes.
When she arrives at the building that is like home to her, she takes a moment to admire the stained-glass and gold façade, and the much larger hotel that adjoins the restaurant. There, Sylvie blends in with the crowd. She even waves at the bellhop and gives a "Thank you.', looking as if she'd just exited the hotel.
Sylvie walks the few blocks home without a care in the world. Wherever Aphrodite had been last night, Sylvie certainly was not. The entire world knows Sylvie Winslow practically lives at Le Richoux.
There is good reason for that. On any given day someone decided to spy on Sylvie, the occupancy sheet at the hotel would say she was in room 1313.
It is a cursed number, one no one would want but Sylvie. She loves it, believing it is good luck.
Thus far, life had yet to prove Sylvie wrong.